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Paris

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A bar, a man of fifty after a girl of twenty. He knows how he looks.

He’d guess she’d be a little like this — mop of dark hair, scornful, concentrating on every detail of the room and on really not giving a rat’s.

It isn’t her. It’s not that kind of bar. They’re very free here. Randall buys a drink and when he follows it over the boy’s alone. He has delicate hands and haphazard stubble and when Randall hesitates, his eyes never stray. A born skeptic. But there’s warmth. Welcome.

Randall coughs. “I wonder —”

He knows how he sounds.