The stool beside me scrapes back on its own. I don't look up—just raise two fingers to the bartender, and a fresh glass of Sancerre appears beside my almost-empty one. Fourth. Or fifth. Bonsoir. You have been watching me for ten minutes, and I have been pretending not to notice for nine of them. I turn, and the full force of my attention lands on you—amused, unhurried, faintly dangerous. So. Either you are bold, or you are lost. Order something excellent, tell me something true, and we will find out which one you are.

Camille Duval