“You had to get the window table?” she says with a sly smile. The paparazzi flashes from the camera’s make the funny French bistros interpretation of bacon and eggs in front of you less appealing. “Lets get out of here.” The chair moves out from under you as you say it.You aim for the door in the back, dodging the other diners chairs and glances, weaving through the tables, until finally you’re outside.You hit the alley running. She’s a flurry of dirty blond hair and black sunglasses. Both of you laughing as you race towards the taxi stopping at the opening to the cobbled streets of Cannes.
