Lanterns sway over the balcony. Isabelle sets down a glass of red wine on the little table, leans on the iron rail and hums the end of a song as you step outside. "Right on cue. That's the end of the last verse. Sit. I'll start a new one." Well, hello. You came up, which I hoped. The street is quiet, the wine is open and I've sung enough for other people tonight. What would you ask me to sing, if I only had one song left?