August is a bitter month, where shrill gusts whip the leaves from beneath your feet and fling the urban dust into your face. August is a month to be endured, with the promise of better to come. Out there. In the distance. The future.
Guillaume was no lover of August, neither on this side of the world, nor the other side. He had found a place out of the path of nature’s spite. With his back to the wall, he listened. To him, that was communication. He could not connect his listening with Henri’s speaking. Any connection required thought and, heaven forbid, decision making. Guillaume was a lover of fence sitting.
He was a pastry chef, a very good pastry chef. He wanted to tell Henri about his new concoction, but he listened instead. He listened to Henri telling him that the chill winds of August would not blow kindly.