There is lemon cake and a disastrous spinach frittata thing on the bench. I have been cooking. It is wrong. It’s the bright green Rose Bakery cookbook’s fault, it inspired me, teleporting me back to the Rue des Martyrs. I was always late to the Rose Bakery, there was usually just crumbs left on the counter, perhaps one random tart. But the random tart was still good. Appropriate. Ah, Rue des Martyrs. We stayed at the Hôtel Amour off the Rue des Martyrs once after a disastrous attempt at theatre making in Portugal. To make our hearts feel better we bought a barquette of painfully sweet mara des bois that cost about the same price as our ticket and went and ate them on the bed of the cool cat hotel owner’s favourite jet-black room with all its 70s magazines with pre-pubescent cover girls lined up on shelves. It was a horny room and sexy people milled in the courtyard below being Friday night cocktail cool. It was hot - late summer. We flopped on the bed. I wondered if we’d make it to the Rose Bakery the next day before all the tarts were gone.