It is a summer evening, sixteen years ago. Madame is a young girl, perching on the edge of the lumpy, large sofa. Her soft eyes are locked into the gaze of a young man, handsome, carefree and in love. The house is silent in the setting sun, all potential bastions of propriety and responsibility miraculously drawn away on serendipitous errands. Two hands, one marked with paint, touch: hesitantly, then urgently. Fate, merciless and swift, ties two lives together; and creates a third.