It was raining on the Rue de Seine and the bookshop was the only place open. Sofia was reading the last page of a novel first, which James still thinks is a crime. He said so. She said the ending is the only part worth trusting.

They argued about it across the street, then across a very small table at the café on the corner, then, three winters later, on a bridge with the lamps just coming on, where he stopped arguing and asked instead.