The Beach

It was a few years ago. We sat around the tiny coffee table, under the platanes, the plane trees that line every city square in France and whose seeds, come spring, have you scratching anytime there is a gust of wind.

The air was crisp, but she wanted to sit outside. We ordered coffees and sat quietly, watching her children play in an improvised playground right in front of us.

She lit a cigarette, a habit I’d always known her for. And I had known her forever.

—

“Fucking plane tree seeds,” she said as she was puffing out her smoke. “Kids keep scratching. Look at them! Ridiculous.” She paused. “By the way, you’re beautiful,” she said. “You don’t change. Look at me. I am a mess. Do you think I should do Botox?”

It was the first time she had ever asked me the question. I never thought she’d be one to think about these kinds of things. “Do it if you feel the need! I know a good person.” I didn’t go into detail—I could see that her mind had already moved on to another subject. “Kiiiiiiids! Stop…