Issa slips away like Bambi in the chaos of a meadow, discomfort like a shadow crawling on the plane of her back not only from electric blue eyes but from green ones.

She's not one who's fancy of confrontational issues and/or drama of any sort. Moreover, the woman she now deems a fairy with her little nose and tiny lips and beady eyes heavy with green seems all but too jumpy so much so to blatantly bare her fangs at her in a territorial stance. It was almost hard to contrast her eyes being that green naturally or from ugly jealousy.

Oh, well she's being ridiculous. Jealousy's too green anyway.

━ And Issa dislikes green.

Undoubtedly, it has to be said the feeling Issa has become is clearly an indication that's she's human and humans, like magnets, can attract. Thunderman- Roman Diem has that magnetic effect. And wherever our feet discover such as this gallery is the magnetic field in which people are either pulled together or repelled apart.

And, for some reason, she feels the current at the base of her stomach tugging forward as if being summoned by Roman himself.

The air of France is silky and velvety as the French that gently spews from the mouths of strangers passing by. The dialect, in her mouth, tastes rich and sweet. Unlike the Standard English, her teeth don't clash against gamey words on her tongue with a choking force down her throat. Billowy ageless clouds swim across the evening vanilla sky and slowly but surely the purple heavens softly sobs against her fairly crisp skin.

She shrugs her brown leather jacket on and tugs down her yellow cloche onto her bald head. Her heels clap against the asphalt as she strolls to the nearest shelter from the rain, that is, a bus stop. She's going home.

She hugs herself tightly, obviously unprepared for the rain. Leather is not exactly waterproof. Plus she's cold and shivering.

"Bien, cela ne peut pas faire, vous tremblez comme une feuille."

And there he is. Male centerfold. Gravity pulls her eyes to the man in his black trench coat, tears of the sodden sky falling and bouncing off his shadowy frame like a ricochet. The irony that he's an artist and yet he, himself, defines the very reason why art exists due to his delicate and untouched beauty does not go unnoticed by her, or surely anyone- how can it?

"Voici un parapluie- an umbrella."

In slow motion he approaches, his walk bathing in its own elegance and his flushing fingers pulls out the head of a golden umbrella like a savior would his scythe, from under his coat. Issa then ponders the feeling of being pulled by him, held close like his umbrella in the safety of his arms. She wonders what his talented hands feel like against her image being sketched with ink on a sheet of papyrus.

His electric eyes seem to be thinking too, uncertainty like a pair of contacts over them. His lips part slightly but the words recede as Issa makes her decision.

"Merci- though I'd like to think a stalker comes with a better weapon."

A smile relieves his face from anxiety and relaxes and yet so bright, the glow from the lamp posts hanging over the bodies of the narrow streets on by seem to dim in his presence. Issa suddenly realizes, his smile, among the other things he comprises, is the greatest weapon of all.

✿ - - - - ✿

Those who love the color green are often affectionate, loyal and frank.