“You were the one who wanted to come to Paris to die.”
I took her hand and pointed. “There it is. That’s the café.”
We pushed through the crowd at the door and found a table for two.
“Everyone here looks so old,” she said.
“Except for the beautiful girl dancing at the bar.”
“ Madame et monsieur. Vous desirez?”
“You speak English?” I asked the waiter who had materialized at my elbow.
“Yes. I speak English.”
“Who is the beautiful girl dancing at the bar?”
“Monsieur, that is Death.”
“But I thought Death was...”
“Monsieur, the older one gets the more beautiful Death becomes. Has Monsieur or Madame come to dance?”