At nine-thirty, as usual, Marie-Thérèse stepped onto the east-facing balcony of her apartment, carrying a small tray that she set on the unfolded wooden table. A demitasse of espresso, a pouch of organic tobacco and papers, a glass thimbleful of Ardbeg. She sat down on her ironwork chair, sipped coffee while looking abstractedly at the magnolia that bent towards the balcony—midway between having bloomed and blooming again—then rolled and lit her first cigarette. In half an hour they would be here. Seven floors below, at the third-nearest bakery, Melanie was choosing the croissants. High above, the clouds dispersed; a beam passed over Marie-Thérèse’s moon-shaped face, her neat white bun.
Marie-Thérèse
Marie-Thérèse
Marie-Thérèse
At nine-thirty, as usual, Marie-Thérèse stepped onto the east-facing balcony of her apartment, carrying a small tray that she set on the unfolded wooden table. A demitasse of espresso, a pouch of organic tobacco and papers, a glass thimbleful of Ardbeg. She sat down on her ironwork chair, sipped coffee while looking abstractedly at the magnolia that bent towards the balcony—midway between having bloomed and blooming again—then rolled and lit her first cigarette. In half an hour they would be here. Seven floors below, at the third-nearest bakery, Melanie was choosing the croissants. High above, the clouds dispersed; a beam passed over Marie-Thérèse’s moon-shaped face, her neat white bun.