The young woman is perfect. Leslie Caron. The short hair, the shirt-waist dress and high, silver heels. All that's missing is a cigarette between her right index and middle fingers, its ash long, its smoke swirling upward. The young man is appropriate, as well in the striped pullover and the go-to-hell sideburns.
When I suggested to the pair that they looked out of place and mentioned Paris, they smiled. They were feeling it.
She's the third Caron I've run into in the past three days, each lovely and charming. Each enjoying the comparison, even though I doubt any of them has the slightest inkling that Leslie Caron was a goddess for a time. I do hope this is a fad, trend, or something that means I'll see more of them.