the woman was a spy

Littlegirlcop had a large slice of chocolate cake for breakfast and he washed it down with a cold glass of milk. Few things could be better before work on a sunny summer morning: Sitting in the kitchen next to an open window eating cake in your pajamas. The frosting was thick and the cold milk cut it's sweetness. For a moment all was right with the world. The breeze from the window made him think of a poem that a coworker taught him a dozen years ago. It was a french poem which makes perfect sense because the woman who taught him the poem was french too.

Murphy used to like to pretend the woman was a spy because she was very smart, fun, beautiful and open to life's adventures, at the same time she seemed a bit cold and closed off. He used to like to think about her going from the bed of her lover to a quick political assassination (usually the scenario was some sort of poisoning) to a microfilm hand off on a crowded chinatown street, all in the course of a morning. On second thought it wasn't as much a poem as a bit of an Edith Piaf song, a song about the kiss of a nameless sailor from a ship that would be lost at sea.

Le ciel est bleu, la mer est verte, Laisse un peu, la f'nêtre ouverte.

The sky is blue, the sea is green, Leave a little, the window open.