She lies on a rug with Alberto, they are playful with each other, then nap, their bodies touching, like incestuous twins.
We’re drunk and happy, and howl into the night, like wolves in the forest.
He says I should come back to the table and talk to him more, and blows me a kiss. I wink at him, like a playboy.
He laughs. “I wish! I wish you’d fuck me.” He howls this into the night. He doesn’t care who hears. “Fuck you all!”
A man at another table pointed at me, his hand trembling, and said, “Itzak Stern sat there.”
She uses French butter to make croissants, and pulls a face at the idea of Israeli butter. Less fat, she tells me.
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.