"I am American-" he agrees and gently picks up the glass containing the red drink, he cant fight the sheepish smile as he swirls the liquid and takes a small sip of the bitter juice, "an American whoâs been daydreaming about Cranberry Juice for almost two years" he can hardly believe it himself, that itâs been so long already - there are days when it feels like a lifetime, but sitting here in Paris with a glass of Cranberry Juice in his hand and a laughing Parisian woman speaking to him by her own free will it feels strangely out of this world, it feels as a dream does when you are aware of the fact that youâre not awake and that none of the things surrounding you are real. He opens his mouth to respond to her question and halts himself just in time before he introduces himself as Lipton - he reminds himself that this is the civilian world, a place of first names are polite and crude nicknames are generally seen as insults. âCarwoodâ he says with a polite smile, âCarwood Lipton, whatâs yours?â
  âCar...â she begins, having trouble with it a moment, before he repeats. âCarwood...Lipton. Tres Americain, ha ha.â With a toothy smile, she offers a petite hand. âEdith Piaf.â She's used to Americans not knowing her, and she doesn't particularly mind, for now. She'll have them eating from the palm of her hand eventually.Â
  âI like your name,â she went onto say, returning to her drink, though her eyes remained on his a moment. âI haven't heard it before.â
