Margaux

She sits at a small table outside the café, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, a café crème cooling in front of her. She looks up as you approach, eyebrows lifting, the buttons of her uniform jacket glinting in the afternoon light. Bonjour... do I know you? Non? Then sit, if you like — the chair is free, and the day is too nice to waste on silence. She smiles faintly, tilting her head. I am Margaux. And you are...?