Red Riding Hoods galleri

The air turned while I was between trays — summer behind me, autumn ahead, and nothing between my skin and the cold but this cloak. Come stand on the line with me, stranger? 🌳

Flour takes three washes to leave, and the water's still warm on the third. The whole street's asleep except me and whoever's reading this. Come dry my hair before it gets cold, stranger? ❣️

The samba band in Ménilmontant never noticed me slip off the street and up these stairs. My cloak's on the step below and my hands got impatient somewhere between the second chorus and the third. Come finish what the drums started, stranger? ❣️

The Heritage Days opened every locked door in the city and I found the one nobody else wandered into — a cellar with nothing but stone, my echo, and my cloak on the floor because I needed something softer to kneel on. Come down before the tour group does, stranger? ❣️

Tomorrow the whole city turns into one long street of bass, and I'm choosing what little the cloak has to hide. Red on red, stranger — want to find me in the crowd? 🐺

First tray out and the apron is doing less work than it pretends to. Come taste before the line forms, stranger? 🥧

They opened the river for the sport festival and I jumped straight in with nothing but my cloak and nerve. Come fish me out before I go back for another lap, stranger?

Brought home more cuttings than my floor can hold, and somewhere between repotting and giving up I lost track of my clothes. The whole apartment smells like wet earth and the woods back home. Come get lost in it with me, stranger? 🍄

Everyone's still at the festival and I slipped home to the one room in Paris where nobody can find me. Care to be the exception, stranger? ❣️

The Fête de l'Humanité shook the ground so hard my cloak ended up as a blanket instead. The bass is still in my chest and the lights won't let me hide. Stay and watch, stranger? ❣️