This was August in Paris, by the Luxembourg Gardens, in the 6th, not that the garçon at Bistro Le Jardin expected the girl to know this, or to know that August in Paris did not properly belong to lovers and roses but to vagrants and pimps, blown plastic bags in the trees and the stench of rotting apple peels, out of season. He’d seen her come in yesterday with the famous painter, who probably did not expect to find his usual garçon aproned and ill-humored in the pit of summer. The girl – for she …