In an elegant condo overlooking the Seine, Isabella stood earlier than a grand, gold-leafed mirror. She swirled her glass of Bordeaux, sighed with the dramatic aptitude of a fading cinema star, and whispered:
“Mon Dieu, Louis… take a look at me. I’ve turn into outdated, plump, and as withered as a forgotten rose. We girls undergo a lot, sacrificing our youth for household, solely to finish up petrified of our personal reflections.”
Louis, calmly sipping his Espresso whereas flipping by means of Le Monde, didn’t even search for. Isabella, now irritated, stepped immediately between him and his newspaper:
“Are you even listening, Louis? My coronary heart is breaking over my misplaced magnificence!”
Louis slowly lowered his paper and checked out her with the regular, indifferent gaze of a thinker.
“Isabella, ma chérie… you’re really extremely fortunate in comparison with me. So please, cease complaining.”
Isabella’s eyes flashed with a harmful spark.
“Fortunate? I’ve gained 5 kilos and located a brand new wrinkle, and also you name that luck? Clarify your self, earlier than I exile you to sleep with the cat on the balcony!”
Louis shrugged with easy nonchalance.
“Isn’t it apparent? You solely gaze into that mirror for, what, ten minutes a day? And even that makes you depressing. However take a look at me… I’ve to stare upon you twenty-four hours a day, 12 months after 12 months… and but, have you ever ever heard me utter a single phrase of grievance about my ‘struggling’? I’m the one with the nerves of metal right here!”
Isabella: “…” (A terrifying silence fell over Paris, simply seconds earlier than a velvet cushion flew immediately into the face of the “thinker.”)
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