[...] I do not talk about my miscarriage, or the fact that I have been put on medical leave from work. I watch as she lights the last cigarette in her pack, the sun fading in the sky behind her, turning the walls of the buildings across the way their early-evening shades of pink, orange and, finally, deep blue. The dregs of the tea have long since gone cold in the bottom of the pot. I offer Clémentine some wine, but she says she doesn’t drink. I have to go, she says, we’re going to try that Laotian restaurant. Will you be OK?