À bout de soufle

I've known his sister for five days and I already hate her passionately. She's the sort of person that lives by a manual, thinking it will somehow help her escape her anxieties, hoping that nothing will go wrong when everything already has. She listens to Bruno Mars, pretends to be religious and wears beige in an endless variety of shades.

Henry takes me to dinner at La Coupole in Montparnasse, orders too many oysters and addresses the waiters in a surrealistically cinematic version of Belle Époque French. It all makes perfect sense. He goes down on me in his bed just after midnight but my focus is on his copy of The Great Gatsby, placed alone like a monument on the night stand table. I have a feeling this is not going to end well.