Her thesis loomed. Debussy. Prelude to the Afternoon of a Fawn. Stacks of notes caught by a passing gust, papers joining leaves in a flurry down a win...swept, cobbled street, frantic grasping, and how he’d joined her rounding up notes before they disappeared in the next gust. How she cried, how he had helped her pick up the pieces, carried her along even then. The afternoon of a fawn. Indeed, his entire life, the entire score of their days together had been little more than foreshadowing. Such a. I ordered a bloody Mary and she ordered a Tequila Sunrise with a lime twist. We exchanged names and I told her I was a carpenter by trade. She glanced down at my hands.“You’re no carpenter,” she said.“Actually,” I replied, “ I am an architect and I supervise carpenters.”She brushed her long hair back over her shoulder as the bar tender slid out drinks in front of us. I held mine up and tried my best to propose a toast.“To a new friend,” I said.“To a new friend,” she repeated.We each took a. More

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