No Exit

You scan the shelf for longer than was strictly dignified before landing on a slim paperback of Sartre's *No Exit* mostly because it was short, partly because you liked the idea of being caught reading something that sounded appropriately bleak and European, and also, because you had seen a version of the play in Geneva, not that you understood most of it.

You settle into a corner armchair and get about four pages in, more or less genuinely absorbed, before someone drops into the chair across from you without waiting to be invited.

"*Huis clos*," she says, nodding at the cover, as if that settles something. "Bold choice. Most men here pick something safe. A little Zweig, a little Rilke. You picked hell."

You look up. She's maybe early twenties, dark hair loose over one shoulder, an expression that suggests she's already decided the conversation is happening whether you agree or not, and dressed with the particular unbothered elegance of someone who has never once second-guessed an outfit. "I didn't realize there was a strategy to the book you pick."

"There's always a strategy, to everything. No living being has ever made a truly random choice." Her eyes travel over you, slow, entirely unapologetic about it, like she's already deciding whether you're worth the rest of the afternoon. "Yours was either very clever or very accidental. I haven't decided which yet. I'll let you convince me."

"No pressure, then."

"*Beaucoup* de pression, actually. I don't sit down for just anyone." She extends a hand, unhurried. "Amandine."

"John."

"John." She says it like she's testing the shape of it in her mouth, unimpressed but not unkindly so, her fingers lingering a beat longer in yours than the introduction strictly required. "So. Tell me. Do you actually understand what you're reading, or did you just like the cover, and now you're hoping a pretty girl finds you tragic?"

"Bit of both, if I'm honest. I watched a version of the play once. '*L'enfer, c'est les autres.*'"

You attempt the accent, badly, and she winces theatrically, leaning in as though the sound physically pained her. "Your french is lala. Not the best. But worthy of improvement. At least you know where the story ends before you've read it. Saves time." She settles back, entirely at ease, close enough now that the space between the two armchairs has stopped meaning much. "You speak French?"

"Badly. I lived in Geneva for a while. Mostly I remember how to order coffee and insult someone politely."

"That's the important part, honestly. Everything else is decoration." She switches, testing you, voice dropping into something lower and more deliberate. "*Alors, dis-moi! Pourquoi Sartre? Pourquoi pas quelque chose de plus... léger?*"

You catch most of it. *Why Sartre, why not something lighter?*, and manage, slowly, "Parce que... les choses légères... m'ennuient?" *Because the light things bore me.*

Something flickers across her face, genuine amusement breaking through the performance of it, and she leans in another inch, elbow on the arm of her chair, chin nearly resting on her hand. "Careful. Say things like that and I'll start thinking you mean them." Her voice drops further, close enough now that it's practically just for you. "For what it's worth. I like things that hurt a little too. Books, people, everything. It's more honest than pretending you only want the easy version."

"Is that a warning?"

"An observation. Possibly a warning." She smiles, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that knows exactly what it's doing to the room's temperature. "So. *Huis clos*. Three people, one room, no exit, no mirrors, no sleep. Garcin, Inès, Estelle, a coward, a sadist, and a narcissist, locked together forever as each other's punishment. Which one are you?"

"Trick question?"

"Every question is a trick question, John. That's what makes conversation interesting." She tilts her head, studying you outright now, no pretense of subtlety about it. "I'd guess Garcin. You have that look. Wants to be seen as brave, isn't entirely sure he is."

"Harsh. Accurate, maybe. Still harsh."

"I'm French. We consider honesty a form of hospitality." She reaches over, without asking, and turns the book in your hands to check how far you've gotten, fingers trailing over yours a beat longer than necessary. "Barely past the introductions. We have time, then."

"Time for what?"

"To find out if you're actually interesting, or just well-read and well-behaved. I have a strong preference for the first one." She holds your gaze, unblinking, entirely unbothered by the directness of it. "You know the famous line, you said. *L'enfer, c'est les autres.* Hell is other people. Do you know why it's the ones you're stuck with that matter, not strangers passing by?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because strangers don't see you clearly enough to hurt you with it. It takes attention. Interest. Someone actually looking." She leans in, close enough now that you catch the faint warmth of her perfume, voice dropping to something almost private. "I'm looking, John. Rather closely, in fact. You might want to consider that your hell for the afternoon."

"Could be worse company."

"I should hope so." Her mouth curves, satisfied, entirely unhurried about claiming the rest of your afternoon as though it had already been decided the second she sat down. "Though, i think Sartre, he paints a to negative picture of people. True, we can drive each other to fury and all that, but, we are dependent on each other. If Hell is other people, so they are heaven also."

That charming french accent, and those curves hiding beneath the stylish clothing certainly seem a lot more like heaven then hell to you.

Just then, the owner of the cafè announces that the event has ended. "You have been good conversation, John. Au revoir."

You're disapointed, you had hoped to talk to Amandine again. But just as you move to follow her, you see that she left a small piece of paper with her number in the book.