Afternoon lay, humid and heavy, on the harbour. Dogs slept in the quayside shadows, and even the air seemed to pant moistly.
I wanted to escape and, suddenly, buying a boat seemed like a good idea. I dialled the number on the “For Sale” sign.
“Je voudrais.” I began fluently, “um … vendre”. No, that was sell, not buy. Already, events had taken the wrong path.
Cutting the line, I collapsed into the wobbly metal chair.
“Café, s’il vous plait,” I instructed the waiter, one of the few fluent phrases I commanded.