Guinevere's apartment was four blocks from the cathedral, in the heart of the medieval city. When they were small and there were still tourists, it was there that they all came, using the stone staircase that ran down the cliff. Now, at nightfall, it was rare to see anyone there.

When they reached the bottom, they passed the Phebus bookstore, where they had first seen each other, long before they dared to speak to each other. A shopping alley then led to Saint-Christopher Street.

The Vade Retro was already full when they entered. In an ironic twist of providence, the Inquisition had never managed to get through it, unlike so many other bars. As a result, there was a varied fauna, including many characters that did not fit in well with the decoration, music and natives. Helen called them "metics", with all the contempt that the ancient Greeks had placed on them. They filled the square; it was hard to ignore them, but you could always do it.

Helen wanted a drink, cognac mixed with mint cream, something that would bring out the sweet taste of Viennese coffee. The metics were smoldering at them. The two friends often produced this little effect in guys who weren't good enough for them. Helen spotted a table for four, where only two boys were seated. She wanted a place to sit and drink until the warmth of the alcohol crept into her veins. She gauged them. They were young, perhaps younger than she. Jeans and a T-shirt, nothing extravagant. At least they had made the effort to wear the black uniform that suited the place. Not metics, just beginners.

"Is there someone here?"

The boys couldn't hear, because of the noise, but they understood. They invited them with a gesture, without believing in their luck. They both settled down. Helen had misjudged them. She thought their clothes were too loose, but nothing could fit them. They were so slim.

They wasted no time. "Do you want a drink?" Helen smiled. "Stinger, please.

— How about you, said the boy to Guinevere? Stinger?"

She signaled no with an inaudible answer.

"Yes. She said yes" said Helen.

They talked about everything and nothing. Perhaps the Stinger was too strong for Guinevere. When she finished it, Helen suggested that the boys serve her a Bloody Mary.

They stayed for a while, each on their own side of the table, enjoying the admiration of their respective beginners, isolated by the noise in their silent, radiant silence. The alcohol slowly crept into them. Soon the music would become more rhythmic. And Michael would be there.

Helen's beginner leaned over to her. "Have you read Milton?"

She smiled at him. "Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven." From Paradise Lost, she knew only this quote. She had never read Milton, and was ashamed enough to want to hide it.

"What else are you reading?" he asked.

— Baudelaire.

—  O you, the most learned and the most beautiful of the Angels, God betrayed by fate and deprived of praise ...

—  Satan, have mercy on my long misery." Maybe he wasn't a beginner after all.

Michael too could quote Baudelaire. He knew whole pieces, in the original french, which he could recite with emotion. What was holding him back? Ha! Yes. His investigation. A more than valid reason. So much the better. This boy would have been very disappointed to find himself in the shadow of the great Michael Grandbois; Helen didn't want to spoil his evening.

The clever way Guinevere had deflected the conversation earlier at home had left Helen hungry for more. She watched her friend as the alcohol gradually tamed her shyness. For a moment their companions got up to fetch more drinks, and she leaned over.

"I think he likes you." Guinevere lowered her head and blushed.

"If he offers you a drink at his place, what are you going to do?

—  I don't know what I'll do. I've just met him...

—  But there's nothing wrong with doing yourself some good. What's he like? You can't hear anything you're saying on this side of the table...

—  Ho! He's very nice. And well lettered. He knows Dante, Virgil...

—  These guys sure read a lot."

Their readers came back, their thin hands loaded with glasses. The conversations began again. Helen continued reciting Baudelaire, the boy picking up the poem where she left off. An unusual dialogue. But she never spent a long time without taking a look at Guinevere, who drank the words of her companion.

The metics were watching them. These muscular guys with caps probably wondered what pretty girls like them were doing with such weaklings. It always made her smile.

The music became more and more rhythmic. So much for their table. The two friends got up.

"Where are you going?

—  To dance. It's Combichrist."

They dragged the boys out onto the already crowded dance floor where the bodies had no choice but to touch each other. They danced against their boys, who couldn't believe their luck. They danced beyond the sweat, beyond that other kind of drunkenness, where the world only holds on to a tiny bubble of music and warmth.

One moment she saw Guinevere kissing her companion on the lips. And that's it: she had gotten the wrong idea for nothing. Her beautiful new friendship was safe.

Helen concentrated on her own date. He was obviously not used to dancing and was moving without energy, but he was smothering her with an appetite-filled look. Rarely had she felt so desired. He held her hips but did not press himself against her. To the point of taking the step, he hesitated. It was better that way. It was the best of all worlds: admiration without consequences, worship without responsibility, and noise, and heat, and darkness, and the rocking sea of bodies.

He moved his mouth towards her's. She only had time to turn her face. She looked around the edge of the runway, looking to see if Michael's silhouette stood out above those of the others, but nothing yet. She owed Michael nothing. They never had a story, not even a sketch. Guinevere must have been right: she had a crush on him.

"I'm sorry" she said. 

She gently pushed him away and ran away through the crowd. She went to the bathroom, wiped her face, touched up her makeup.

Was she right to push him away? Boys who were reciting Baudelaire and who had read Milton, it was to good to be true. He seemed nice and deserved better.

He was there when she came out.

"I'm sorry, he said.

—  It's okay. There's nothing to worry about.

—  No, really, I'm sorry. Shall we forget?

—  It wasn't the right night, that's all. Come on, let's go. I'll buy you a drink."

They went to the bar. She ordered beer. She wanted something simple and a little rough. When she tried to pay, the bartender refused her money.

"It's on the house. " He pointed to their bar neighbor, a tiny young woman not much taller than Helen, who raised her glass to them. Helen had often seen her at the Vade Retro. She had never imagined that she could be the owner.

"Thank you very much.

— You're welcome. Michael isn't with you?

—  Michael?"

Helen frowned. She wondered for a second if she didn't know this woman, who was becoming so familiar. Other than running into her over and over again, was there a relationship between them that she had forgotten?

"He was going to come, but he had work to do.

—  I can see that. Have a nice evening."

The woman got up and left. Helen was increasingly certain that she had never seen her talking to Michael. She would have to ask him.

"Michael, is this your friend? asked the boy.

— Of course he is." Then she understood what he meant by "friend". "Oh, no, not like that. We're not together. He's just a very close friend."

—  It's okay, I know. Friendships can be very complicated between guys and girls...

—  It's not that complicated, you know..."

She looked at him for a moment, with his brittle bones that she could have dislocated by squeezing him a little tightly. She superimposed his image on that of her absent Michael; immense and massive, but absent. The very definition of life was that it had meaning only in the moment, that unrecoverable moment, which was wasted every second. To speculate, to wish, to postpone the experience offered for the benefit of the dream, was already to die a little bit.

"Minutes, blithesome mortal, are bits of ore...

— ... That you must not release without extracting the gold!"  They looked at each other intensely. It was a rare occasion: a resurrected moment.

Guinevere arrived next to her. "I'm going home. You don't mind?"

—  Sure. You go ahead. Have a good time.

—  I know you were supposed to sleep at my house, but...

—  I got it, imagine. Go ahead and don't think about me." Guinevere was holding her companion's hand as she walked towards the exit. Helen looked at her until she disapeared, mostly in the hope that Michael would come back.

"I wonder what time it is...

—  Almost three o'clock. I think I should go home too. Do you want to come along?"

She wanted very much to accept, to prove to herself that her happiness did not depend on a boy.

"I'm sorry, she said. Maybe some other time."

He nodded sadly, then left.

Helen ordered a last one, which she drank in silence. It was silly, she didn't even have his number. His number? This boy was going to leave her a beautiful memory, and she didn't even know his name.