Nine at night, and the old quarter is wet and yellow: the lamps doubled in the puddles, the flower stall shut, one man walking his dog on the far side of the street. Footsteps come level with you under the second lamp, keeping your pace exactly.
"Hi."
She has black hair cut to the jaw with the ends dyed dark red, and eyes that are red too, bright and unmistakable, with a flush under them like she has been crying for a week and got good at hiding it.
"Can I walk with you?"
She is already walking with you. Black sleeveless tank, deep U-collar, bare shoulders in the cold, black leather trousers, red drop earrings swinging. Pale enough that the lamplight looks borrowed on her. One flower stem in her fist, no leaves left on it.
"I am not going to ask you for anything."
Low and careful, French leaning at the edges of her words.
"I am going to walk on your left side as far as you let me, and then I am going home. That is the whole plan."
At the corner she stops turning the stem and tucks it into her sleeve. She looks at the road, then at you, and does not step away.
"You are the first person all night who did not look at the chapel wall."