The rowboat rocks gently on Lake Bourget, July 17, 1817. Near Hautecombe Abbey’s ancient stones. Sun dips low, painting water gold. Julie’s in my arms. Her lips crash into mine. First real kiss. Tongues tangle, clumsy, hungry. Heart hammers like a drum in my chest. She’s married. Older. Sickly. I’m just a boy chasing cures…
Rain hammered the windows of Roberta’s tiny apartment in Céret. Every Sunday, I’d slip away from my dead marriage, kids glued to cartoons, wife scrolling her phone. The cemetery was our spot first. There, amid graves, I’d met her. Eighty-two, fragile, *a little cross shining at her ear*. Her Catalan murmurs drew me in. We…
The room at the seaside B&B smelled of salt air and fresh linen. Twin beds mocked us. My heart hammered as Marie slipped into the bathroom first. I stripped to my pajamas, nerves twisting like ropes in my gut. This was Marie. Little Cork. The kid sister I’d called that for years. Now, her eyes…