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It was Laurence who had told me how the restof the French had felt about Paris because she had seen it and felt it as aParisienne. She had showed me ...t by the brazen way she overtook traffic onthe right before turning left in her car with her 75 plaqued'immatriculation and with her disdain for the right wing politics of thevineyard owners of Burgundy.Yes, Laurence was, like me "une ?trang?re".Only I did not know it yet. I still thought of myself as "un ?tranger"although with my poor French. Nothing else mattered. I know now that it was a coping mechanism. I had compartmentalised the trauma, and my subconscious was doing whatever it could to slam the lid shut. My right hand, sandwiched between hers, was almost poaching in our combined sweat. But there was no way I was going to pull it away. Instead, I placed my left on top of hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Tabitha looked up at me, more of her neglected hair falling free as she did. Her eyes were raw, but soft. Somehow they. More

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