Aimée parked the car—a dull putty-grey Citroën deux chevaux that had, admittedly, seen better days—on a side street. “Stay, Punch. I’ll just be a few minutes.” She reached into the back and gave the sugar-dusted tip of an almond croissant to the dog, who was lying on a worn myosotis-blue and slate-grey plaid stadium blanket. He took it gratefully, wagging his tail in appreciation, but showed no particular desire to go anywhere.
Rummaging in her coat pockets for loose change to feed the parking meter (which had an appetite more voracious than that of the dog), she felt a flutter of excitement: there would be lilacs at the flower store today. She was certain of it.
