I don't know who spots who first. I'm in black from Lanvin, he sits at the table next to me, writing something with a glittery tourist shop ball-point pen on ivory paper. By the sheer focus I can tell it matters to him.
"What are you writing" I ask as he looks up for a fraction of a second, disturbed by a waiter putting down drinks.
"I'm not sure", he replies, "but I know how it's going to end."
"How can you know that?"
"Because it's all true."
I let the smoke from my cigarett rise slowly towards the blackening Paris skies, it's getting late but this night was clearly made for conversations over countless glasses of Burgundy wine.
"I'm Avy", I say, "nice to meet you."