5.

I got over it, of course. I’d been through worse things than that, as they say. It was springtime. Springtime in Paris; the springtime of Cole Porter and Ella Fitzgerald. Terraces and promises and the days stretched out in front of me; I was alive and in good health; I had other advantages and more than one trick to pull out of my sleeve.

 

I’m serious. I’d forgotten him. And then, one morning, I emptied out my bag, because I wanted to switch to a different one. Because I was going to a wedding and I needed something cuter. And that day, chef’s surprise: bombe glacée and chicken in mustard sauce.

My chef popped up without warning, and I was caught unawares at the buffet.

Sticky patch ahead. Very sticky.