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THIRTY
30
I am on my second beer when Blanche gets to the restaurant. I am watching the pizza chef spin a disc of dough in the air and draping it over his knuckles before relaunching it.
The waiters are young.
Two of them are watching Blanche, commenting to each other. They're trying to fathom our relationship. What is a beautiful, slender, blonde woman doing with me who is a great deal younger?
She is either my mail order bride or my mistress, they are guessing.
The café is nearly empty.
Nobody eats this early in Paris. An older man with a dog sits near the front door.
He slips his hand beneath the table with morsels of food.
"She could be anywhere by now," I say with reluctance. "She played us like a violin, and I didn't see it. I am getting too old for this cloak and dagger shit. I should retire."
Blanche becomes angry. "She has fuelled a lot more people than just you. She is very good at her job, but you are better."
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