Die for Her A Die for Me Novella

that Vincent is only half listening to the stories I’m telling. So I amp up the intrigue and give him a story I’m sure he’s never heard.
    It was about 1910 and Juan Gris and I were leaving the Bateau-Lavoir, that hideous wooden building where we all lived and worked. If possible, it felt even colder inside the building than out. We were so frozen that even with gloves on we couldn’t manage to paint, so our plan was to go sit in a warm café until our fingers unstuck, and then get back to work. Between us, we had enough cash for two coffees, and I guess we were looking pretty rough—but who wasn’t in those days?
    Anyway, on our way back to the Bateau, Juan and I got nabbed by the police. Handcuffed and taken in. We knew we were already on the police lists for suspicion of being anarchists and rabble-rousers (which we were not). But this was no regular roundup of indigents. No—these cops confused Juan with one of the robbers of the rue Ordener bank. They were sure it was him, even though we swore up and down we were innocent artists.
    “Prove it,” one of the cops said. So I grabbed a pen and paper off the desk and drew a picture of one of the Chat Noir cancan girls. But in my sketch, she had forgotten her costume, all except for the feathered headpiece. With a whoop of raucous laughter and slaps on the back, they let us go.
    I’m finishing my story when I realize that Vincent’s not even listening. He leaps to his feet and runs over to the girl’s table. I turn to see Sad Girl standing behind two women who are gathering up a gazillion shopping bags, waiting to get by them to leave. But she forgot her purse—it’s draped over the back of her chair—and that’s what Vincent went to get. He returns with it, and has just sat back down when she gets tired of waiting to leave in that direction, turns, and heads straight toward us, toward the other exit.
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks as she passes mere inches away. She turns and looks at him inquisitively. “Your bag,” he says, and holds it up on two fingers. She thanks him and reaches for it, but he yanks it back. And then they do this kind of strange dance where she’s trying to grab the bag and he’s pulling it away, insisting she tell him her name before he’ll give her the bag. A classic pickup line that he has unabashedly stolen directly from yours truly.
    Of course, unlike me, he fouls the whole thing up. In one catastrophic movement, she grabs, he gives in, and the contents of her bag spill all over the terrace. Her hairbrush lands on my foot, while Vincent picks up her driver’s license and studies it like it’s the Rosetta stone.
    Retrieving her book from under one of the neighboring tables, he holds it up. “ To Kill a Mockingbird en anglais ,” he says, and then launches into his near-perfect English trying to start up a conversation. “Great book—have you ever seen the film . . . Kate?”
    Her expression morphs from pissed off to astonished. “How did you know my name?” she asks. Vincent holds up her driver’s license, and she turns beet red. She won’t even look at him and he’s apologizing up and down, and I finally butt in to point out the obvious. “Help the girl up, Vincent, and stop showing off.”
    Vincent extends a hand toward her but she ignores it, struggles to her feet, brushes herself off, and grabs the hairbrush I’m holding out to her. Vincent hands her her book, and with a look that manages to combine humiliation with deep hatred, she stomps out of the place.
    “Now that, my friend, was smooth,” I say as Vince and I watch her walk out to the street and then glance back at us. Her face is now puce, but Vincent doesn’t notice. He floats back down into his chair.
    “Hey, spaceman, time to come back to Earth,” I say, waving my hand in front of his face.
    He pops out of his trance and looks me in the eyes. “Kate Mercier. American, Brooklyn address, birthday December ninth,” he says in this awed voice, like he’s just discovered the formula for turning mud into gold.
    I shake my head in dismay. “Man, you’ve got it bad. But you know you can’t do anything about it.” I tap his shoulder. “Amélie and I are going out tonight. Come with us. I’ll have her bring a friend. It’s just what you need to get your mind off what’s-her-name.”
    He shakes his head. “No, thanks. And her name is Kate.”

THREE
    I’M HEADING UP THE STAIRS TO MY BEDROOM after a full hour of