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‘Allow me, Mademoiselle,’ he had said. ‘Why thank you, Monsieur.’ Jane took his arm at its oft-mended elbow patch and stepped lightly out of...the limousine. It was one of the things she’d always loved about him, his tendency to wax romantic while wearing a sloppy blazer and self-satisfied grin. He’d been to France once, in college, but any culture he’d acquired was pure affectation. He wasn’t rich, either-certainly not rich enough to rent a limo in New York (exhaust taxes had gone through the. Her nerve endings seemed to have been cauterized by time, sadness was hard-wired into gray/green eyes that were notable only because they held-out no hope, only pain. No matter. She was Sam’s sole link to the contents of the coffee urn and despite his initial aversion Sam's interest was piqued.The filthy, yellowed menu with 1970’s prices should have been Sam’s first clue. His eggs were limp, half cooked pools of salty slime, his toast seemed to have endured the ravages of a great flood, and not. More

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