I’m lying on a chaise lounge on the terrace of the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. Surrounding me are chic European men and women, gauche American insurance salesmen and their ill-at-ease wives. I’m 36 years old, reading today’s issue of the French newspaper Le Figaro, basking in almost perfect bliss. (You encountered me in this same spot, on the same day, in Toying.)
Except.
Except that I’m thirsty.