Jessica Hecht

I had often coveted Maggie's life, full of books and music,

Thin thighs and rich desserts, unpaid bills and her husband's girlfriends.

When one of these femmes became pregnant with twins, that ended some of that.

E-books undid the rest.

The bookstore, A Moveable Feast, was located in Le Marais, the third arrondissement, traditionally the Jewish Quarter, now a mixture of the LGBTQ crowd, well-heeled artists, and a daily influx of shoppers, much like the Lower East Side of Manhattan or Prenzlauer Berg in Berlin.

Lots of trendy cafes, galleries, and stores, with a few remaining kosher bakeries, falafel, and Judaica shops for their rapidly dwindling holdouts.

It was tucked away in a little medieval cobblestoned plaza, which hadn't been so great for sales but was big on charm, and was as tiny and crammed and disordered as the last several years of Maggie's life.

And mine.

I kept a plastic extra saucer on hand for my daughter to spin in.

It was unisex green with little stuffed dolphins affixed to the sides like carousel horses, so she wouldn't get any princessy pink ideas.

And I'd scattered some fabric books to bite on along the plastic trowel that encircled her and a handful of French Cheerios, au miel and au noir, for her to chase down.

This way, I kept her close by my side as I worked.

Since I'd last seen Maggie, she had grown very thin, with her red hair tied loosely back and her freckled, bony chest.

She looked like a Walker Evans, a result, I'm sure, of all those cigarettes and misery.

So I often stopped at the boulangerie on my way over to the store in the morning, and I laid out an array of treats, Benroiserie atop a mobile bookshelf to tempt her.

It was only around 11 a.m.

on this particular day, but it was unusually hot for May.

Global warming.

I'd rolled up my sleeves and hiked up my skirt as I sorted and dusted.

At some point, I tied my curls into a seemingly hilarious topknot using one of the baby's cleaner bibs.