There was one other person who did not join the ranks, who followed Lua out the door and into the sunshine. He was a distinguished looking fellow, well-dressed, perpetually sleepy eyes. He approached her from behind. Her hands gripped her waist and she was staring at the sky in concentration.

A pair of dress shoes winked up at her.

“Comment t’appelles-tu?” he took her hand. “What is your name?”

“Lua.”

“We will have lunch together, unless you have prior plans?”

She stared at him, weighing, measuring. His face was soft and smooth, too polished, accustomed to black-tie events and women in silk gowns. She was on the verge of declining, until she noticed his hand—weathered with art.

A smile, a barely noticeable nod.

“We will have lunch.”