Across the street from us a young woman in a green dress put her hand up. I thought she might be hailing a cab but after a moment I realized she was looking at us. A tram slid between us and when it had passed, there she was, running across the street. She was tall, with long legs and long hair, so she got over to us quickly. She was so quick that she arrived in pieces, first her long long legs, then her hips, then all the rest of her. She was waving a phone at M.

Wait, a moment, she said a little breathlessly. I only just heard. Damn these shoes, she said, and put out a hand to steady herself on M’s shoulder. She did this casually, her eyes on her shoes, her hand knew the height of him by heart. I felt the line of her zip down me suddenly, when she did that. Touched him. Zip. Right through me.

Damn these shoes, she said again, smiling. Teasing. A nice girl. She smiled nicely at everyone. M, me, everyone.

They’re no good for running, she said. Jean should know not to call me with anything urgent on Saturday, when he knows I might be wearing these shoes, she said, still teasing.

She had the most delicious Parisienne accent. One of those accents that laps at the words like a cool tide, drawing everything around her closer, closer, closer.

I was on my way to Jean’s she said. Just now. To check the arrangements. But then I saw you. She said this to M and she smiled at M.

Then, balanced only on the needle heel of one of her boots, she teetered, started to fall, came suddenly undone, and M reached out and caught her. It took my breath away when he did that. When he caught her like that. To see her a moment later saved, which in this case is to say in his arms. For that same moment I was underwater, plunged breathless into it. I mean, I couldn’t breathe.

E was pulling my hand. I hadn’t seen her come back. Really, I had forgotten all about her. Who’s that lady, she said and M laughed with the woman still in his arms and the woman laughed with M’s arms still around her. M tipped her back up and they untangled themselves. His hand caught in the strap of her tiny glittering bag and so for a moment there was a thin gold chain wrapped around them both.

This is Aurelie, M said. My assistant.

Aurelie.

!

I can’t believe it! the woman who was Aurelie said, pushing a lock of hair from her eyes, pulling her dress back down across her thighs. She was testing the heels of her boots on the cobblestones, putting herself back together. Playing at it.

This is why every French girl knows it is terrible luck to work weekends, she said, smiling at M. But these Swiss. What do they know.