It's my third night alone, and even the moon is full.  This Southern sun has warmed the skin, but my English bones are cold as rain. Rain and mud, and rain and horseshit. And yet, buttering my croissant this morning, I took a call from Axel. He would prefer to meet for lunch tomorrow in Sauve. Like an orphaned son I asked, will we be alone? I have no desire to be hauled into a glittering train of Teeth, accomplishment, and unacknowledged nepotism. But why even ask? God, I should grab my own balls. Firm up a bit. This could be a disaster.