René who took her to bed the night of Leila’s dinner party and made her feel things she had never thought possible. René who said he wanted to remain in Paris for a few weeks-“Would it be possible for me to crash at your place, Emily? Leila has no room for me. You know Leila. Too many clothes, too many things. Too many men.” René who had made her happy again. René who was eventually going to break the heart he had healed.

He was already slipping away; she could feel him growing slightly more distant every day. He was spending more time on his own, disappearing for several hours each day, reappearing with no warning. When she asked him where he had been, his answers were vague. She feared he was seeing another woman. A skinny French girl, she imagined. A girl who didn’t have to be taught how to make love.

That afternoon Emily wound her way through the narrow streets of Montmartre to the rue Norvins. She stood beneath the crimson awning of a bistro and peered through the window. René was seated at a table near the door. Funny how he always insisted on sitting near the doorway. There was a man with him: dark hair, a few years younger. When Emily entered the bistro, the man stood and quickly walked out. Emily removed her coat and sat down. René poured wine for her.

She asked, “Who was that man?”

“Just someone I used to know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jean,” he said. “Would you like-”

“Your friend left his backpack.”

“It’s mine,” René said, putting a hand on it.

“Really? I’ve never seen you carry it before.”

“Trust me, Emily. It’s mine. Are you hungry?”

And you’re changing the subject again. She said, “I’m famished, actually. I’ve been walking around in the cold all afternoon.”

“Have you really? Whatever for?”

“Just doing some thinking. Nothing serious.”

He removed the backpack from the chair and placed it on the floor at his feet. “What have you been thinking about?”