Terrifying

September 22, 1999. Selene stood us up, on what was to be her last day in the city. We waited for her at Génoise et Thé, musing about epistemology over Alain’s coffee. After an hour, the doctor pushed away The New Yorker and said: “Rien ne colle. Elle cache quelque chose.”

My gut tightened. “Are you sure?”

“Mon soupçon, ton juste avertissement.” Her cup clinked on a coaster. “Prudence, Gale Jones.”

We observed Hortus direct the new staff behind the counter, recalled how things were before Selene, and parted on the hour.