She could have been walking Rue Soufflot in the autumn, but she wasn't. She saw it by chance, from across the busy Sydney street in the early summer after a sudden shower.
It was not the brioche that attracted. Well, it was and, then again, it wasn't. It attracted her taste-buds, but turned her stomach. Her stomach reacted to the settling of fats. Before, she would purchase in haste, and repent at leisure. But, no longer. Now she appreciates from a distance. She finds other aspects more tempting.
Like the printing. The shape like the ooze of the custard filling. Like the skill that went into the formation of each letter. Once completed by quill, but now likely by fine-point. She appreciates the complexity of the printing. Its ability to link both the similar and the disparate. Like the window links a street in Paris to a street in Paddington.