We walk, flipping through the menu of cafes until we find one in a quiet triangular corner that serves crepes. The menu is scrawled by hand, in French, but I don't ask Willem to translate it. After all that business with Céline, my lack of fluency is starting to feel like a handicap. So I stumble across the menu, settling on citron, which I'm pretty sure means lemon, orange, or some kind of citrus. I settle on a lemon crepe and a pressed lemon drink, hoping it's some kind of lemonade.
"What are you getting?" I ask.
He scratches his chin. There is a small patch of golden stubble there. "I was thinking of getting a chocolate crepe, but that's so close to chocolate and bread that I'm afraid you'll lose respect for me." He gives me that lazy half smile.
"I wouldn't worry. I already lost res
