French Exit

by Patrick deWitt

I was discovering about money. What it meant to have as much as we had then, I mean, and how rare it was not to have to worry.

“Do you ever feel,” she asked, “that adulthood was thrust upon you at too young an age, and that you are still essentially a child mimicking the behaviors of the adults all around you in hopes they won’t discover the meager contents of your heart?”

the best way to curb it was to ignore her until she began behaving attractively again. Sometimes it took a while, for Mme Reynard was not unfond of self-pity, but sooner or later, thanks to time, or drink, or a restorative nap, she would return to her typical grace and good humor.

“Are you a poet?” asked Mme Reynard. “I work in finance. There is, I feel, a sort of poetry in numbers.” Malcolm said quietly, “Gross.”

do you know what a cliché is? It’s a story so fine and thrilling that it’s grown old in its hopeful retelling.”

“My mother was overfine for this world, Detective Alphonse. That’s what damaged her. She belonged to another time and it was her ugly luck to be born among us.”