She knocked three times with one of those brass handles you only see on ancient doors in obscure European towns. Bee touched the deep ridges on the worn wooden door. They were like wrinkles formed by a lifetime of highs and lows.
When Anthony Bourdain opened the heavy door, barefoot and dressed in a long Kaftan, Bee knew she was dreaming. The smell of stale cigarettes and booze overpowered the scents of baked goods already permeating the air.
In real life, Tony hung himself in a town in France—much like this one in her subconscious mind. Yet there he was, hungover in his nighty.
Bourdain never asked Bee who she was or why she stood on his doorstep like some groupie. He stared back, an inquisitive brow raised high above his brown eyes.