In Paris, the City of Light, the best parties happen after dark … but the very best parties happen after death.
We’re all dressed in our finest — the women in long gowns that still whisper gently when we walk, and the men in high-waisted trousers with cuffs.
I wear a corsage. It’s just a sprig of flowering gourdon that I picked up in the Parc Monceau.
That was the Sunday that I died.
I was walking to the Moulin de la Galette, as usual, for an afternoon with friends.
My sister, as usual, was annoyed with me.
“Ah, mon Cherie, why must you dawdle so?”