The sky was once bright and azure; now, however, it was a ghostly white. The raindrops fell slowly, almost sadly. The Eiffel Tower, normally a destination for many, was seemingly deserted on that particular afternoon. There was hardly anyone in sight. Obviously, men and women did not desire to admire beauty on such a pitiful day.
Apart from one young woman, however.
Her dark blonde tresses were done in a large, intricate waterfall braid that fell just above her waist, and she wore a plaid dress that accentuated her curves. Hepburn-inspired frames concealed her emerald green eyes, and black high heels allowed her to appear taller than she truly was. Though she maintained an appearance that was perfectly polished, she possessed a sorrowful demeanor.
In her arms, she held a large bouquet of roses in a variety of sizes and colors. She cradled the flowers close, as she were a protective mother holding onto her infant child. She waltzed across the lawn, and found a seat near the center, despite the slight dampness of the ground. She did not care though. Instead, she continued to hold onto the bouquet and stared at the Eiffel Tower, admiring its beauty and strength just as she had six years prior.
Six years ago, she had been young, vivid, and so full of life. She had been an aspiring artist in the City of Love, and she had loved once, too.
His name was Henri, and he was a Frenchman. He was also an artist, though his work was everything hers was not. Her paintings were classic, alluring, and light; his were modern, fresh, and rich in color. They were opposites, but that did not matter. They had fallen in love.
Once, they had sat on the ground, in the exact place she sat now, gazing at the Eiffel Tower. Well, she had. Henri had not. He had been fixated on her appearance for the entirety of that afternoon.
“What are you staring at?” she finally inquired. His eyes met hers for a slight second, and he looked down, bashfully, as if he were a schoolboy being reprimanded by his teacher.
“Forgive me, dear Ofelia,” he spoke. “I was simply admiring your beauty.”
Ofelia scoffed. “Oh, puh-lease,” she retorted, clearly unamused. It took everything she had to not roll her eyes. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
“It is not a lie!” Henri proclaimed. “It is the truth. You see, I am entranced by your beauty.”
She sat up straight and allowed her shoulders to relax. She averted his gaze, though she desired to hear more. Henri did not need to know that, however. “Uh hu.”
“I am completely honest!” he exclaimed. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and stood so she could not see anything in her path – the Tower included.
“Henri!” she cried, stifling a giggle. “Move this instance!”
“No!” he stood completely still, as if he were a marble statue. “I will not move until you open your ears and listen to me.”
Defeated, she sighed. Ofelia slumped back and rested her elbows in the grass. “Fiiiine,” she gave in. “You win.”
Henri grinned, clearly pleased with himself. He stood there a moment longer, and cleared his throat before he spoke. “Ofelia,” he began, smiling at her name, “you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. You are kind, wise, and so full of life. I admire you for your wit and creativity. It is obvious that I am in love with you.”
“When I laugh, you light up my world. When you cry, I cry. You are –“he paused, rattling through his mind to find something to say. Finally, his eyes found the Tower, and he beamed excitedly. “Yes! You are like the Eiffel Tower. You are iron. You are strong. You withstand the changing times. You are classic. You are beautiful.”
In that moment, Ofelia had been stunned. And in love.
But now, that love existed no more.
That is why she stood where she stood now, six years later. All because a Frenchman had stolen her heart. Henri was dead though. He had died four years ago, though she had not known until two weeks ago.
For years, she had waited for a letter. A phone call. Something. Anything at all.
She felt betrayed by everyone, including Henri. She had loved him and he had deserted her. Ofelia would never be the same. She did not feel beautiful or strong. She was not iron.
Instead, she was broken. And she would not withstand the changing times.