The ancient pearwood trees in the courtyard and the view from her window overlooking the Seine kept her there. Every winter, the bone-chilling cold and archaic plumbing almost drove her out. The year before, she'd pitched an army surplus tent around her bed that held the heat in nicely. She couldn't afford repairs or the monstrous inheritance taxes due if she sold her apartment.

Miles Davis licked her in greeting. In her tall-windowed kitchen, she turned on the faucet jutting out of the old blue-tiled backsplash. She washed her hands, letting the warm water run over them a long time.

Mechanically she opened her small 1950s refrigerator. A moldy round of Brie, a six-pack of yogurt, and a magnum of decent champagne that she would pop the cork on some day took up one shelf. Beneath a bunch of wilted spinach was a white-papered package of raw horse meat that she spooned into Miles's chipped bowl. He gobbled it up, wagging his tail as he ate. She chiseled the mold off the Brie and found a baguette, hard as a crowbar, in her pantry. She left it there and found some crackers. But when she sat down, she couldn't eat.

She put on two pairs of gloves, leather over angora. Downstairs in her apartment foyer, she pulled her mobylette from under the stairs, checked the oil, and hit the kick start. She headed over the Seine towards Gare de Lyon and her favorite piscine for swimming. Reuilly wasn't crowded at this time, its humid aqua blue phosphorescence splashed jellylike against the shiny white tiles.

"Bad girl." Dax, the lifeguard, waved his finger. "Didn't see you yesterday."

"I'll make up for it. Fifteen extra laps." She dove into the deep lap lane, her mind and body ready to become one with the heavy warm water. She loved the tingly sensations in her arms and legs until her body temperature stabilized with the water. She established her rhythm: stroke kick breathe kick, stroke kick breath kick, completing lap after lap.