Then her hand would remain little longer on my leg. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”“Just turned thirty a few weeks ago.”“...ow, so young. I’m nineteen years older than you and Jean-Louis is fifty years-old.”“You both look great. I’d never have guessed.”“You speak French very well, Peter, but I can’t guess where you’re from. Sometimes you sound English-speaking and at others a bit Spanish,” said Jean-Louis.“Very astute,” I said. “I was in fact born and mainly raised in. I didn’t come this far just to give up. Ever. I couldn’t anyway. You’re too important, even in the beginning.’ He brushed the snow off her hat before ashing the cigar. ‘And wherever we go in life, however far or however much things change, you’ll always be in the back of my mind. We are but a handful of dust, each grain a year of our lives. No, not of our lives, but of our youth. To which we forget. And yet, only remember as the best. To the very contradictory paradox of death. And when we. More

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