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She is the moon’s limp flower in plain jeans and a jumper. The flash of arclight startles her, and the fluorescent lighting that extends to infinity, flickers and goes out. Mathilde is scared of the dark. The bleak illumination returns, and quietly relieved, she sits amongst the gunmetal grey on a plastic seat.
She rubs her gritty eyes, and the train snakes, rocking her. This is no lullaby because her boyfriend sleeps in Montreal like an innocent. She slept on a plane as the guilty, with his stain on her soul.
Sentier… Sentier…
A habitual mind leads her feet, and she plods on the platform, jostled by commuters rushing for the train. Her suitcase buckles, the handle yanks from her hand, and it falls with a boom. More of her dies inside.
A few are startled, and some stop and stare, but no one comes to her aid. She drags it up the steps of the Metro because chivalry is dead, and a couple exiting her apartment block do not hold open the heavy door.
This is just another day of her life in Paris.
Jacques, the attendant, looks blankly at her, and the feeling of contempt is mutual. Finally, he greased the elevator gate.
Threeohfive… Threeohsix… Threeohseven… her weary footsteps echo off the freshly painted walls.
Threeoheight, she must call in on Béatrice. It is early morning, and she must procrastinate today.
Threeohnine, with its orangepainted door, is her small act of rebellion in a life of conformity.
She is home.
= The Night’s Impassioned Hours. =
A cold pall of shock makes her soul and bones shiver.
The lounge is as chaotic as her thoughts, and Mathilde’s eyes scan but do not see. The blinds and the long white muslin curtains are closed. A scattering of wine glasses with different levels of liquid rest as silent witnesses. They could play an octave of a haunting tune, lamenting her sense of violation.
Perfumes and colognes mingle as ghosts, and they mask another scent. It speaks to the dormant part of Mathilde – the musk of . There is a discarded condom wrapper on the leather settee and two more shine on the parquet floor. On the coffee table, empty platters and crumbladen plates rest.
She hears running water, and a spike of fear snaps her neck towards the sound. It slaps the shower pan and Mathilde retreats. A sudden rush of adrenaline poisons her mind, and her intuition shouts: Leave now and call the Police.
A female voice echoes from the bathroom, humming a tune.
Mathilde makes fists with her hands, squeezing them tight. No more cowardice; she is not a victim. Pivoting back to anger, she closes the door quietly, slips off her shoes, and creeps like a burglar. Cutlery tinkles, trying to find her weapon – the carving knife.
From the ajar bathroom door, condensation obscures a petite feminine body.
Mathilde is taller and stronger, and she needs answers. Back in the lounge, she missed them earlier, draped on the arm of her egg chair: a black jacket and cocktail dress. A puddle of lingerie rests on the floor, with a clutch bag and stiletto heels.
On a bookcase shelf, the bottles and glasses are unmolested. A generous Cognac trembles in its glass; it burns, and she stifles the need to cough. Sitting in her chair, Mathilde places her phone on the occasional table, and the knife blade glimmers alongside it.
The patter of bare feet seizes her breathing. The stranger appears unawares, carefree and holding a small makeup bag, naked as a sculpture to debauchery. Facetoface, the woman freezes with a gasp, and surprise widens the whites of her eyes. Mathilde is shocked, too, and instinct propels her hand to the knife handle.
Attractive, smoothskinned, and similar in age, her high cheekbones with smoky eyes do not waver. She is a continuous flow of honeycoloured curves, with barbell piercings through each nipple. A lack of pubic hair and a tiny ring peeks through the cleft of her .
The woman makes no effort to cover herself. Perhaps she is under the influence of drink or drugs, and the silence insults Mathilde.
“This is my apartment,” her machine gun words make the woman flinch. “Give me a good reason not to call the Police.”
Spying the carving knife, she fidgets with alarm. “This… this is not a holiday let?”
“No!”
“I… I can explain.”
The woman is lucid and sober.
“You will. What is your name?”
“Romy.”
She flicks nervously at her black pixiecut hair. That might be a false name, but she cannot fake these emotions.
Mathilde releases the knife handle. “I will not harm you. Now, sit.”
Still anxious, Romy obeys, and the leather settee groans.
“Tell me what happened here and how you got in. If you do, I will return your clothes and let you go. Or do you want to be arrested and taken from here like that?”
Any starts at the beginning, and Romy spins words with a pierced tongue. She watches intensely as hands gesture, swirling as an incantation. Her naked presence and words illuminate the dark corners of her imagination. They fucked here, eight of them, for hours.
An unsolicited heat rises, warming that neglected place within. Romy is a libertine, brazen and confident. The pinnacle of her desire and the reason for her heavy pornography consumption. The cause of her massive row with Etienne when he asked about her fantasies.
A slug of Cognac is her conditioned response to negative thoughts. She should be disgusted. That is the proper reaction of the majority. Passing judgement, Mathilde summarises it as an orgy, and Romy agrees with a coy smile.
Mathilde adds a hint of sarcasm when she smiles back. “So, who invited you?”
“Séraphine.” Her softer diction suggests sharing a confidence.
“And she had a key?”
“Probably,” Romy shrugs. “She gave me this address.”
“So where might I find her?”
“She works at a bookshop, La Promenade on Rue du Chemin Vert.” Romy grins, “You should visit.”
Mathilde finishes her glass. “And if I do, what does Séraphine look like?”
“Your height and build, a little older than me, brunette, and attractive… like you.” Romy flashes her eyes and smiles, “And you… you are just her type.”
She is so bold it floors Mathilde.
Romy places her arms across the back of the settee; she leans back, stretching her breasts across her frame. As an explicit invitation, she waits for a response to match her alluring eyes. Looking at her is to see what Mathilde is thinking, and there is no more Cognac to hide behind. The prop to distract herself is as pointless as her resistance.
Mathilde rises and walks to the bookcase. Romy cannot see how she burns or the shaking hands when she recharges her glass.
Turning to face her, she will not succumb to her aura of temptation. “So, why are you still here if everyone left last night?”
“I work nearby, so I slept with Séraphine and her boyfriend. By the time we were… finished, it was late. They left to get breakfast, and I thought they were coming back. Obviously, they are not.”
“You did not keep this orgy to the lounge?”
Romy gazes at her lips for a moment. “No.”
The imagery is too much. The Cognac is meant to fortify her, but it dissolves her inhibitions.
“I have heard enough. You can do one thing for me.”
“Sure.” Romy shifts in her seat and opens her thighs. “Anything.”
Mathilde casts a shadow over her body, and for the first time, her eyes waver. “Lead the way to the bedroom.”
As a frisson, it quivers through Mathilde and Romy leers. The scent of cypress and sea fennel suits her. The gait of her alluring body taunts Mathilde’s threadbare restraint, from her slight shoulders to the wriggle of her hips and the dimples above her pert ass.
She could… she could just reach out…
The crazed sheets sway the pendulum back. Reaching into the ottoman, they are laundered and ironed. Pressing them firmly against her breasts, Romy takes them.
“Change the sheets, open the window, and pick those up.” Her steely eyes gesture to the condom wrappers, “Then, I will return your clothes.”
She shrugs, “No problem.”
“Leave the dirty sheets on the floor.”
Retreating, Mathilde is breathless; she almost capitulated but has the last word. The glasses and plates go into the dishwasher, and she tidies the lounge, doing anything to avoid the truth. It is inescapable; a naked woman in her bedroom wants to have with her, and Romy knows she does, too.
No… she cannot do that.
When Romy returns, they move as chess pieces. Topping up her glass, Mathilde watches as she dresses in front of her. Adjusting her lingerie, she reveals the contours of her sensual body from different angles. Sliding on a stocking, Romy looks over and grins.
A split second separates instinct from cold logic, and Mathilde must ignore the compulsive throbbing heat.
The figurehugging dress mesmerises as she bends over to take her clutch bag.
Fully dressed, Romy glances at the suitcase, “Did you travel a long way?”
“From Quebec.”
“That is a long way.”
“Yes, I am exhausted.”
Mathilde wants to flee her own apartment and walks to the door.
She follows, and there is an uneasy static between them.
Reaching into her clutch bag, Romy offers it with sincerity. “Please, get a cleaner, send me the bill, and I will pay it.”
It is a business card; it has a name, an address, and a phone number.
Romy Toussaint.
The truth, her kindness, the gnawing arousal, and the Cognac propel a motive force deep from her subconscious. “I am Mathilde.”
“Enchanté, Mathilde.” There is an earnestness in her expression. “Really, I am very sorry.”
She sighs, “It is not your fault.”
A hand on her forearm creates a spark, “Thank you, and… I saw the artwork in your bedroom. The book of Baudelaire’s poems, too. I understand.”
Prickled with embarrassment, Mathilde demurs, “I know.”
She opens the door, “Goodbye, Romy.”
“Goodbye, Mathilde.”
The scent of cypress and sea fennel lingers.
= Dear Lonely Ones =
Mathilde wakes with a jolt in her chair. Out for five hours, it is past lunchtime, and the clean stench reassures her. Whoever they were, nothing was broken or stolen. There is no mitigation for violating her sanctuary, and she must find out who has a key.
Dawdling into the bathroom, she bolts down painkillers, and a bookish persona stares back. She flicks her plain hairstyle long, rulerstraight, and easy to hide behind. She never wears makeup, and her parchment skin needs reviving.
Romy said she was attractive, so Mathilde looks beyond the veil… beyond the guilt.
There is a pleasing harmony to her features, almondshaped eyes, good cheekbones, and a neutral pout on her lips. She turns sidetoside, and her feminine jawline and delicate nose compliment her profile.
She stares into her hazel eyes with their flecks of copper, and they have lost their lustre. A testament to harder times, perhaps, jet lag, maybe, but they are a reflection of herself, and that light went out years ago.
It is a conscious effort to remember she is single now.
The zest of sharp water wakes her body. Tilted up to face it, she slicks back her clean hair. There is plenty of today left, and she must find out who did this. Béatrice has a key, and so does Jacques. Mathilde lost hers last month, so it was a sensible precaution, and then she changed the lock. They still got into her apartment. Replacing the lock changes nothing, and she cannot afford it; rebooking her flight depleted her savings.
Etienne had a key, too, and he is the most unlikely culprit of all.
Washing herself, the foam slides over her taut body, and the scent of cypress and sea fennel thrusts her mercurial guest to the front of her mind. Mathilde encountered a libertine, and she wanted to have with her. Desired like this for the first time in her life, the shock of a stranger in her apartment pales to this experience. Awake and rested, her body still aches with frustration.
Mathilde braces against the tiled wall. Slippery fingers glide over her shoulder and cross her breasts to her midriff. She cleaves her and rubs at the slick heat, spreading her arousal.
Romy’s beguiling eyes invite her to take her hand, leading her to the bedroom. She knows it is her first time, plucking her resistance away like the petals of a flower. Grazing her lips, they slide into a close embrace and flow like rain against her body. Mathilde surrenders when she finds that place, caressing the nape of her neck. There is no rush; enduring this barrage of desire, Romy incites her to explore, encouraging her to savour her soft skin and supple flesh, and Mathilde marks it with her lips, squeezing Romy’s breasts.
Under the warm rain, she rubs that swollen button and her body soars.
The air carries Romy’s perfume; it smells so sweet. Discarding each petal, she touches Mathilde’s breast for the first time, kisses her nipple, and envelops it in her mouth. Romy pulls her close, squeezing her behind, and lets her hands roam. Their restless limbs find new places to touch as skin sweeps against skin. Her tongue flicks with a glorious innuendo, and her fingers are the messenger of intent.
Mathilde’s innocent eyes diminish; she pouts and whimpers for more. This is the smoke before a fire, and she pleads to burn. The moment Romy descends, the next kiss tantalises more than the first. She looks over her impatient mons and kisses her creamy inner thigh. Smooched kisses, nuzzling, closer and closer until that first lick of her is the knowledge that removes all her angst. Romy laps at her folds with a telltale skill, fracturing her breathing into heartfelt gasps.
Mathilde sucks her fingers, savouring the taste.
Libertines were in her home, and if she walked in on them – she would join in: women, men… any men. Stroking two erect cocks, sucking them in turn, they torment her with their direct, strong hands. Laid onto her back, one takes her mouth, and the other slides inside her. Thick, squeezed against her muscular walls, they move in a languid sawing motion, making her body writhe, eager to feel their brute force.
More of them know where to touch: her forearms, the backs of her calves, her neck and breasts. Romy leans over, her hands enjoying those prone mounds, grazing over her erect nipples. She joins the melee, taken in the same way by a rigid phallus at both ends. When her mouth can draw air. Mathidle cranes her neck, and Romy’s nipples are erect and puckered. She can reach one with her tongue, circling it, flicking it, communicating her need.
The men peel away, and Romy crawls over her, placing kisses as she descends. When her body parks on top of hers, her heartshaped behind splays, and the pillows of her glisten with her dew, framed by slender thighs.
There is no calm in these stormy waters, and Romy’s zigzag tongue makes her arch and fall into a powerful frenzy. Mathilde tightens on the relentless soft pads of her fingers, setting her body aflame. She cups her hungry mouth to Romy’s , pushing her tongue inside, savouring her tart juices.
Water streams down the canyon of her spine, and the whooshing of blood arrives. With an echoing cry, liberated from a week of chaste denial, the image of Romy’s naked body spices its power. Tight as piano wire, Mathilde’s spasmodic body crashes, demolishing a wall of tension. Stabbing fingers prise out the persistent remnants. They could have done this to her, and Mathilde would let them do more.
Breathless, she slumps against the tiles and sits in the shower pan as the rational world leeches in.
This is her private mania, and the cork must remain in the bottle.
It is for the best and the safest course of action.
= This Day of Misfortune =
Staring into the dress mirror, she plays with a nonchalant expression, trying not to reveal her nerves.
Straightening the clingy zipped sweater, she flattens her tweed short skirt. Found at the back of her wardrobe, they fit well. Autumnal Paris requires woollen tights and a pair of forgotten calvelength boots.
Her outfit reveals more than she is used to. Her slender arms, the pleasing curves of her breasts and legs, she feels… y. Fussing with her hair, she remains uncertain. The flowing, loose curls shine, and she will not hide. A little foundation conceals her pallid complexion, and a Parisian red lipstick makes them bloom.
“Fuck you, Etienne,” she mutters cautiously, afraid he might hear her.
Standing at the door to threeoheight, she taps out a double knock.
“Hello, Béatrice.”
“Mathilde. This is unexpected. Have you lost your key again?”
She smiles, “No, I have it.”
“You look different? Is a change as good as a rest?”
Alluding to her time in Quebec, Mathilde can only manage a watery smile. “I need to ask you something. Is this a good time?”
“Yes, of course, come in.”
Walking into the lounge, Mathilde adores her apartment. It is the epitome of style and good taste a tribute to the sophistication of the sixties and seventies. The scent of fresh coffee percolates from the kitchen.
“Would you like some? It is no trouble. I am expecting a friend later.”
Mathilde baulks, slightly skittish, “Oh, I am not intruding, am I?”
“No, no, not for half an hour. Please, make yourself at home.”
A large framed film poster seizes her attention. It is new but not unusual. Béatrice worked in the film industry. A beautiful woman of the era smoulders in soft focus, and her sultry eyes follow from any angle you care to look at it.
Mathilde sits amongst the neomodernist furniture. The décor matches the minimalism, and an interlocked set of diminishing circles stretch out on the longest wall as a feature. Islands of pure white shagpile add an element of kitsch to the elegance. The place lacks keepsakes, except for a picture of her late husband in blackandwhite, professionally taken; it fits the motif.
“Béatrice, I do love those Lucienne Day curtains.”
“Yours arrived yesterday.”
“Wonderful! Thanks for taking delivery. I am so sorry about the mixup, and I hope my call was not too early.”
“No, really, it was not a problem.”
Served on a tray, Béatrice sits opposite, elegantly kempt and slender, a continuation of her excellent taste with a dignified poise. In a knitted cream dress with bold onyx jewellery, tiny crow’s feet animate her smile, inviting conversation.
“So Mathilde, how was Montreal?”
The coffee is smoky and smooth with its bitterness. “Okay, and no boyfriend now.”
Béatrice commiserates with a shrug. “If I can say, I am not surprised? I noticed you were unhappy. Sometimes, you must follow your heart, Mathilde. Obviously, you took that early flight home.”
With a hint of solemnity, she nods, “Yes.”
“How do you feel about what happened?”
“It was the right thing to do.” Mathilde chides herself, “Oh, you know me better than that. I felt like a spectator rather than involved. No, a mannequin, to be manipulated, posed and silent.”
“I understand.” Béatrice ponders her words. “We are only young once, and I think you are starting to realise that.”
It speaks to the quiet part of her, “Perhaps. ”
“And work? That will not be a problem?”
“No, he will be in Montreal for another five months, and I am thinking of finding a new job.”
“And this is a reason for that?”
Mathilde sighs, “I need more than freedom and a clean break.”
Béatrice reclines into the wooden framed settee. “Never say no to an opportunity. I have much to thank my career for. I worked my way up to being a set decorator. Not bad for a girl of eighteen and only good at applying makeup. It is how I met my husband and many of my friends.”
Detecting a hint of melancholia, Mathilde empathises, “Time is a great teacher. It is too bad that it kills all its students.”
“Berlioz, very good,” it amuses Béatrice. “You would do well to remember that.”
Understanding the irony, she smiles. “I am trying.”
“So, is this why you were celebrating last night?”
Suddenly flushed, the aspersions are clear. “That is what I need to talk to you about.”
Béatrice waves her concern away and taps her ear. “Hearing aids, a reluctant concession to my age. I turned them off. No apology needed.”
“Thank you, but…,” Mathilde winces, “this is awkward.”
“My dear, what were you saying about time? You are a vivacious young woman, and I love your new look. You must have fun… of all kinds. It is allowed.”
“Perhaps I would… if I invited them. I was flying home last night. Someone got a key to my apartment.”
Béatrice recoils, “My God, how terrible! Are you okay?”
Mathilde nods, “Yes, and maybe I cannot care less because of the jet lag. One of them was still there when I got home.”
“Really! And you are alright? My dear, it is a crime!”
“Yes,” she sighs, “I talked to her, and I believe it was an honest mistake on her part. I do not want to deal with the Police. There is no damage, and they stole nothing. I would have to explain what my unwelcome guests were doing, too.”
“Well, Mathilde, if you are sure.”
She is relieved that Béatrice chooses discretion rather than curiosity.
Mathilde sips her coffee, “She gave me the name of a woman and a place, a bookshop on Rue Du Chemin Vert.”
“Are you going to see her?”
She mulls over the question, “I should. I cannot feel safe until I know.”
“You could just change the lock.”
“I changed the lock last month, but that did not stop them. The owner’s association rules say I must keep a key with Jacques. I think he played a part in this, but I have no proof.” Mathilde shrugs, “There is no other choice.”
Béatrice agrees. “If you must go, be careful and go in daylight.”
“Well… what could happen? It is a bookshop, and I am not venturing into the banlieues. I will go after I speak to Jacques.”
As a reflection of herself, Béatrice is pensive. “Do you think I gave them the key?”
A solitary eyebrow is the challenge, and Mathilde requires tact. “No, I do not. You are a dear friend, but I wonder if someone took it from here, perhaps?”
“I have many friends who visit regularly, but only I know where it is. Let me find it.”
There is grace in her movements, echoes of her youth in how she carries herself.
Walking back, she holds it up, “Where I left it, and just in case you lose yours again.”
“Thank you, Béatrice. I did not want to accuse you.”
“You did not,” she smiles.
“Then, thank you for understanding.” Mathilde glances at the clock on the wall. “Your friend will be here soon.”
“Yes. If you need someone to talk to, I am here.” There is a hint of concern in her eyes. “Will you be okay?”
“You are very kind, and my world is a better place after speaking to you. Now… I must go and find Jacques.”
Béatrice’s gaze narrows, “Stones will bleed before he does a day’s work.”
They embrace. “Let me know when you want to hang those curtains, I will help you.”
Mathilde hugs her tighter, “Thank you, Béatrice… for everything.”
= The Place of a Million Souls =
The service corridor does not have the same airy façade. It is gloomy and smells of cleaning products. Jacques’ pokey office is closed without a note. His consistency is his unreliability, and he cannot run away, even if he is elusive.
“La Promenade,” Mathilde mutters under her breath.
Riding the Metro, she watches people come and go, hiding behind oversized sunglasses. There is laughter or boredom; they are chatty or quiet. Caught out, Mathilde retreats from a frosty stare; Paris is not Nîmes.
Once, she was enchanted by the City of Light and the appeal of anonymity. It is a risible idea now. Mathilde has a week to kill and no one to share it with. Her life is a carousel of work, work drinks, and meeting friends from work at the weekend. It was Etienne and herself for two years, always by his side, always as a couple.
Scrolling through reels of pictures on social media, they taunt her fears. Mathilde is twentyfive years old, always in the background, never the foreground. She never feels at ease, which is obvious by her hesitant smile. Eagerly, she will say anything in agreement to swell their ego and as a form of selfdefence. Mathilde cannot strike out and be her own person. They might disagree with her, find her strange, and not involve her because she fears loneliness.
Pushing a button sends it back to black. This is the wrong time to reflect.
Outside of work, there is no one except Béatrice, and she has a joy for life. She listens and accepts Mathilde for who she is. Béatrice is the only person who sees glimpses of her true self.
A young couple hold hands, and her thoughts return to Etienne. He approached her, and she did not notice him in the crowd. The butterflies of desire came later. She went along with the rendezvous and simpered when he kissed her. He took charge, and Mathilde preferred it that way. Presented with an opportunity to further his career, he took a secondment in Montreal, and she felt abandoned. She would not let it show and was full of positive encouragement.
After a month apart, Mathilde saw the truth and did not ignore it.
Walking out of the station into the Eleventh Arrondissement, the revolutionary spirit of the Bastille lives on. A side entrance to the cemetery at Père Lachaise catches her eye. Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and Jim Morrison lay at rest there. They did not live dull lives, and no one will forget about them.
Her friends are competitive colleagues who will forget about her for a promotion and a pay rise.
With luck, Etienne will forget about her, too.
Her days smear into a forgotten week, forgotten months, and four forgettable years. A pitiable destiny beckons; this is not life… it is existence.
Mathilde turns her back on the mortality of a million souls. She makes for a poor Parisian, frightened of herself, surviving one day to another. She pulls her punches and holds back her true self. She is safe. Safe makes her kiss the ass of people she despises. Safe got her heartache; Safe cannot fulfil her. Safe keeps her down and afraid to dream.
Mathilde waits for permission to live when she should beg for forgiveness.
This is the wrong time to reflect. No, it is not.
She takes bolder footsteps, slapping the pavement. Go to the bookshop, meet the libertine, and find out how she got that key. Mathilde must listen to the truth inside. Yes, she is excited, and no, she will not ignore that. Romy convinced her it was an honest mistake, and the world might judge her, but Mathilde will not. This morning, she was angry, yet she witnessed Romy’s humanity. Pofaced morals are hypocritical when that quiet voice inside says otherwise.
Mathilde has Romy’s phone number, so she could call it, perhaps… meet for coffee, or perhaps… more.
Sometimes, you must follow your heart, Mathilde.
Béatrice’s words ring true until the name she remembers matches the redpainted exterior she sees.
“Oh God.” Mathilde deflates.
Yes…, this is the wrong time to reflect.
= The Green Path =
Taking a deep breath, Mathilde ducks in, praying for invisibility and faking indifference. Illuminated by mood lamps and daylight, this place is a bibliophile’s wet dream if you enjoy erotic literature.
Hit by the scent of paper, fresh and new, old and musty, warm vanilla walls provide an airy feeling. The springy wooden floor does not muffle her footsteps and creaks, but a row of display cases provides discretion.
Venturing deeper, she sees different genres as an encyclopedia of fetishes: bondage, submission and domination, gay, , transgender, and straight. Chaste , hardcore , and the suggestive dust covers overwhelm her. Books slant into a corner, a neat stack, or in piles on an antique leather banquette, and bookcases rise to the ceiling. The names Miller, Nin and Reage are familiar in the Classics section.
A sense of unease makes her legs restless, and she is the only customer on a midafternoon Wednesday. Stealing a glance at the counter, a man stands behind it, pricing more books.
There is no woman here. This place is a lost cause.
Cheated and panicking, Jacques is the culprit. Mathilde will pay to change the lock tomorrow and live on soup all month. He will not have another key, and the owner’s association can complain all day and night. She will tell the truth if she must and endure the disapproval of those bourgeois busybodies.
Heading towards the door, a rack of films distracts her vintage pornography in a modern format. She stops. The poster in Béatrice’s apartment is the artwork on a case.
“The Secrets of Youth”, she mutters quietly, holding it.
It feels wrong to leave emptyhanded, and seeing Béatrice’s name in the credits would be amusing.
“Can I help you?”
Startled, Mathilde pirouettes, and a woman peers over her black, fullrimmed glasses.
She steps back. “Erm, I am just looking.”
In a bellsleeved chemise, the woman sweeps a lock of brunette hair around her ear. Drawn to her striking, highborn looks, she exudes a powerful uality, and Mathilde is the rabbit in the headlights.
“Well, well, well, it is Romy’s inquisitor.”
“Séraphine?”
Nodding slowly, she tilts her head, appraising her. “So? Are you going to pull a knife on me?”
Romy told her everything.
Dread paralyses Mathilde’s mind, and timidly, she shakes her head.
Reaching out, Séraphine toys with her hair. “Mmm, Romy is not wrong. You are beautiful. However, you frightened my friend.”
Her first syllable is a croak. “I was angry.”
Clairvoyant eyes ransack her mind, leaving it blank, and she invades her personal space.
“Understandable,” she whispers.
“I… I am sorry about your friend. I had a bad day.”
She repeatedly tuts into her ear. “We all have those.” Its rich, silky timbre sends a shiver down her spine, “And, if I found you in my apartment… Ooh la la.”
Mathilde flushes hot, betrayed by her cheeks.
Grinning, Séraphine steps back, letting her stew in her juices. She takes the film from her hand and peers at it.
“Mathilde? You have good taste, and this is a classic. A about a finishing school for young libertines, led by an older woman that teaches them… everything.” Her penetrating gaze seeks the truth. “Does life imitate art for you, Mathilde?”
Tonguetied, there are no secrets; she knows this is checkmate.
“I will take that as a yes. So,” Séraphine halts abruptly, returning the case to the rack. “You want to know how who has the key to your apartment?”
She nods bashfully.
“Then I shall tell you. You can lead the way to my office.”
Séraphine gestures to the door.
Walking towards it, a glance at the man behind the counter reveals nothing.
“Alain, give me ten minutes.” Séraphine’s tone does not ask for permission.
Mathilde’s hot blood tempers; she will be out of here soon.
It is an office with a bloodred carpet and a workplace suited to an elderly academic. Windowless, the light of a languishing anglepoise lamp creates long shadows. The smell of decades and stationary permeates the room, and a burnished antique brass clock keeps time.
The cluttered mahogany desk and a lowback, wooden swivel chair are made for work, not comfort. It has all the accoutrements of a bygone age. A spike for invoices, rubber stamps hang in a carousel, and a franking machine emits a yellowy glow. A laptop displays a spreadsheet, and a book rests on a waisthigh wheeled pedestal. Neatly stacked boxes contrast with the disorder of padded envelopes on the shelves.
A scent of citrus and lavender approaches, and tender fingertips slide through her hair to caress her neck.
“So, Mathilde, before I tell you, you need to answer my questions.”
She shivers and bites her lip to suppress a gasp. The thoughts that describe her emotions boil within, jumbled in a soup. There is one: a rising ache, and cannot avoid its calling.
Mathilde turns.
As an impossible maze, from the years of denial, the chaste glances at women who admire her, to the courage of her admission to Etienne. His ridicule and anger, her guilt, and Romy this morning all avenues were a deadend. The exit is there, before her.
The door closes, and Séraphine leans against it.
This is the moment she craves and fears; there is a chasm between them.
= For the Sake of Silence =
The opaque white of Séraphine’s chemise hides the dark contours of her brassiere, which matches her black midi dress. Brothel Creeper shoes elevate her height and are the stealth that set this trap. She picks open the buttons, one by one, and it arcs in flight onto the desk.
Séraphine’s sultry eyes convey her explicit message, and Mathilde’s breasts heave with the oxygen of desire. Her brassiere hangs on an extended piano finger, and joins the chemise.
“Romy told me she made her intentions towards you very clear. Is this clear enough?”
A ringing in Mathilde’s ears is an alarm that cries wolf. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
“You wanted Romy to lead you to your bedroom. Why did you do that?”
“I… I…” Mathilde is confounded.
Along her elegant neck and broad shoulders, Séraphine’s milky white skin flares from her torso as two enticing breasts. “Am I not desirable?”
“You are… very.”
“And you are, too, and we know you have a secret that holds you back.”
She approaches, and Séraphine’s fingers trace along her cheek. If Romy lured her to pounce. Séraphine is a tigress. Mathilde is a puppet on strings and yearns for her to pull them.
Beguiling eyes seek the truth. “Tell me, did you want to kiss Romy?”
Mathilde cannot blink, “Yes.”
Séraphine pouts. “Have you kissed a woman before?”
“No.”
“Am I your first?”
Her cast iron lies crumble into rust, “Yes.”
“You have a copy of Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil. You are our kind of connoisseur.”
“I am not,” Mathilde is crestfallen, “but… but I want to be.”
Séraphine lifts her chin with a finger, “Romy thought so, and it was a terrible misfortune that brought you here. The tragedy is to deny the opportunity. Now, if I said I had your key, the perfect explanation, and I was as deceived as you were. Does that make a difference?”
With bashful eyes, she nods. “Yes.”
“Would you like me to kiss you, Mathilde?”
The last person who did that was Etienne. He kissed her goodnight, and she said see you tomorrow. That day will never come.
Séraphine raises a quizzical eyebrow.
Everything rests on a single word. “Yes.”
Resting her arms on Mathilde’s shoulders, the truth fights with her anxiety. Warm breath caresses her flushed skin, and tentative hands rest on Séraphine’s waist. Instinct tilts her head, the anticipation peaks, closer, closer still, and then… the tender graze of her lips. It breaks the curse, and she is free. They press again and then again. Séraphine slides a hand along her neck, and fingers run through her hair. Mathilde’s faltering hands run around her waist and along her back. Stunted movements thaw, and their evershifting embrace flows as meandering water.
She mimics her tutor, snorts of air rise, and Séraphine’s purr is a treasure to cherish. They break, her mind swims, and the chasm closes.
“Not so bad, is it?” asks Séraphine.
“No,” she sighs in a dreamy whisper.
“What do you want, Mathilde?”
“To… to,” she pauses, trying to catch her breath, “To be a libertine.”
Séraphine purrs, “Then, this is your first lesson.”
They give and take in these precious few minutes. Feathers drag over Mathilde’s arms and the nape of her neck. Séraphine’s tongue prises open her mouth, a whimper escapes, and her naked breasts mash against Mathilde. A trembling hand, laden with lust, grazes its soft curve. They surge as one, and their lips drip with desire. Tongues swirl and dance back and forth until they break and plunge in again.
Those flames that Mathilde always extinguished, burn brightly.
She yields to Séraphine’s insatiable hands, stifling whimpers as fingers drag over her ass, along her spine, her shoulder, and arm; they come to a stop on her breast. Kneading it, propelling Mathilde to press firmer against her lips. Séraphine reduces Mathilde’s skirt to a waistband. Fingers round her flank to the inside of her thigh, and she brushes against that aching heat. The combination of Séraphine’s incessant tongue and those tactile fingers cannot sate her needs. This is Mathilde’s mania, and its cage door swings open.
Methodically, Séraphine rubs at Mathilde’s and an intense lust roars, devouring the novelty. Panting, flushed with the scourge of arousal, her automatic hips wrestle with the sublime.
“Oh God, please…” she groans, “I need this… I need this!”
“Mathilde, I like to take the lead sometimes. You like that, doing as you are told?”
“Yes, yes!”
“I thought so. Your word is Banal,” Séraphine whispers, “Use it if this is too much, and it stops.”
“Oh God, yes.” Mathilde quivers with excitement.
“Are you ready for your second lesson?”
Words are a struggle. “Uhhuh.”
“Good girl. Are you willing to do anything? Remember, use your word, and this stops.”
Mathilde moans and bites her lip, “Anything.”
“Look at me.”
She opens her eyes, and steely amusement greets her. She can sense the presence of another. It is the man behind the counter. While those diligent fingers overpower her, Séraphine holds her wrist and guides her hand.
“Take it.”
Mathilde’s fingers find smooth, taut skin, warm to the touch. Alarmed eyes soothe as Séraphine grins. For a splitsecond, she might use her word. Her hand wraps around his curved, muscular shaft, and her soft grip gauges its meaty girth.
No, she wants this.
“Stroke it slowly. Keep him hard.”
Obeying, Mathilde watches how her lips curl, bearing her teeth.
“Do you want to know a little secret?”
Mathilde nods.
“Alain missed out on what happened last night. I am sure you can console him, but be warned, he has a considerable appetite.”
Mathilde gasps when Séraphine unzips her sweater. They pull it from her, and her brassiere follows. Stunned and breathless, firm, masculine hands unzip and remove her boots. Séraphine takes to her haunches, yanking her skirt and tights down, and her panties, too. Intense exhilaration shallows her breathing, and the cool air fuels the powerful immolation.
Naked and trembling, she sobs for air. Her body seethes as fingers spiral, meander and linger, or open palms glide and squeeze her breasts, her ass. An errant thumb grazes her nipple, and gasps transform into plaintive moans. She has Alain in hand, obeying the simple instruction, and there is one intense conviction: she must have his magnificent erection inside her body.
Alain kneads her breast in the only way that masculine hands can. Séraphine taunts her inner thigh, skirts around her , and roams through the small triangle of hair. Fingers cleave her folds, spreading her essence over the pillows of her .
It is her loudest gasp; her legs tremble, telegraphing through her overloaded senses. Mathilde’s eyes flicker and close, and all the angst, emotional conflict and doubt drain from her in a long exhale.
“Look at me, Mathilde.”
Eyetoeye, cool fingers slick with her essence, slide inside. The candle is lit, and hot wax drips.
“Oh God.” her tremulous voice crumbles, openmouthed in wonder.
The potency of the sensations quickens her wrist, making Alain groan.
Séraphine takes to her knees, kissing her mons. Her fingers curl and find that place inside, lofting her elation to the ceiling.
“So, Mathilde… did Romy make you wet like this?”
She clings to her shoulder. “No.”
“Could she?”
“Oh God,” she grunts, “yes.”
“Good girl.”
“Please… please. I want you too.”
“Do what, Mathilde?”
“Eat me, eat my pussy.”
“Ah ah, not yet.”
Peering down at Séraphine, she stares into the windows of her soul. The everdiminishing circles of her thumb peak her expectations, and she pleads with helpless eyes. Séraphine brushes her clit, emptying her lungs and quaking her legs. The sidetoside movements wreck her breathing. Mathilde is not alone, not a freak, and there is no shame. She runs downhill, out of control as the pressure swells, gathering pace and overwhelming her.
She cannot show restraint to the erection in her hand. Alain’s groans rise until Séraphine takes her hand away. Directing her to the chair, Mathilde kneels on it, and the waisthigh pedestal is brought forward, allowing her to rest her elbows, posed like the Sphinx.
Séraphine adjusts her posture, running her fingers along her spine, down the cleft of her ass, stirring at her and clit. Panting hard, Mathilde trembles beyond her limits, exposed, ravenous, as a feral, ual being. Every taboo thought, everything she saw and read, what happened this morning, what will happen now, and what will come inundates her mind.
“You need to tell him, Mathilde.”
“Fuck me, put it in, and fuck me!”
“Yes!” exclaims Séraphine, clapping her hands, “That is your third lesson.”
A seldomused word to offend or shock is an instruction for the first time. Its power intoxicates and corrupts. Gathering Mathilde’s hair, Alain directs her gaze at Séraphine’s naked body.
“See a nice cock, fuck a nice cock, Mathilde. You will learn.”
The blunt head of his stout erection teases her slippery folds, sliding up and down.
In heat for his shaft, redfaced, she begs. “Fuck me… please, fuck me!”
It is her mantra, amusing Séraphine as she shimmies and steps out of her panties.
“It is the same for women, Mathilde. You will reveal all the secrets of your desires to me. I want to see you and Romy together, .” Séraphine purrs, “Mmm, you will learn.”
These words fuel the furnace, and she bays. “Fuck! Yes! Yes!”
With a languid gait, Séraphine approaches, “Good girl. Now, open your mouth.”
She pushes the damp, musky bundle in. “There, something to keep you quiet, just in case you are a screamer.”
= The Pale Glow =
Mathilde is the silent, meditative passenger, floating amongst daydreams with an indelible, winsome smile. To the casual observer, she is just another passenger; to the cognoscenti, her lipstick is faded, her cheeks flushed, and her hair is slightly dishevelled. She is freshly fucked, and does not care who knows it.
Footsteps connect with the boulevard and the tiles of the supermarket, random glances greet her, and she will not react, impervious, elevated to what Mother Paris expects of her. Arriving at her apartment block, Mathilde sees Jacques, and news must travel fast because his furtive eyes will not meet hers. Wishing him a good evening, she leaves him confused, smiling behind his back.
In her lounge, wrapped in a towelling robe, her clean body tingles. Shostakovich waltzes as Mathilde eats shelled crevettes, dipping them in white wine. She grins at the giant bag of old clothes dumped by the front door because tomorrow is a better day.
Peering at the key on her coffee table, Séraphine’s boyfriend stole it. It was their turn to host a party. Usually, they rent somewhere, a shortterm holiday let, but he lost their money gambling on the internet. He had the motive. Working in her apartment block as a painter and decorator, he had the means. The opportunity was Jacques’ indiscretion. Discovering that her apartment was empty, her boyfriend stole the key from Jacques’ office, got a copy made, and returned the original before anyone noticed.
For this reason, he is no longer Séraphine’s boyfriend. Discretion is everything to a libertine, and she is a libertine now.
Mathilde knows she is fading. To bed, to sleep, and she lays flat, comforted by the fresh scent of clean sheets. Smiling, she wants to play it through her mind because she must never forget and crave so much more.
Restless as hot lust squirrelled through Mathilde’s body, Alain goaded her with just the tip, pushing in, then out. Séraphine pulled the chair from the corner, unbuttoned her skirt, and sat back. Mathilde’s senses are sharp, and she is forced to watch her voyeur plunging two fingers into her .
With a firm grip of Mathilde’s hips, calm as a metronome, he filled her by degrees, overwhelming her with a deluge of ecstasy. It forced the air from her as her taut walls strained, as unyielding hot steel touched everything. The sticky sounds of steaming juices rose, and the sight of her surrender made Séraphine gasp. Clutching the pedestal in raptures, she played a guessing game with his masterful variations. Their first collision swayed her breasts and illuminated the shadowy corners of her mind.
Spiced by the time, place, and audience, he ravaged her, punctuating Mathilde’s baying cries with longer thrusts, swelling that vast knot of pressure. There was no guilt, cynicism, heartache, or fear. Alain ploughed her depths and did not let her head drop. He made her watch as Séraphine taunted her desires. Mathilde was so close to climax, so captured and alive that she could not stop, pushing back to meet him, taking it all. They could hear and see her frustration, quietened by Séraphine’s panties.
There are names for what she is now, and every single one is true.
“Mathilde.”
Her soul sang when Séraphine called her name. Led from the chair on shaky legs, Alain removed her gag, and she knelt on all fours.
Between Séraphine’s legs, Mathilde seethed. She followed that solitary finger around the curve of her breast, descending the slight flare of her stomach, and it tapped on the mound of her . So pink and shiny, so tempting, and Mathilde fixed on her eyes again. Séraphine leered as a challenge as her breasts rose and fell. The sweep of Alain’s shaft buckled her mind again, goading her mania. Pay tribute to her teacher, recollect the illicit nights watching pornography, bucked by a firm thrust, she dived in.
The heat, that sweet musk, her eyes would not waver from Séraphine’s. She lapped at her folds as a kitten drank milk until her obsession took hold. That leering grin melted into gasps. Attuned to Séraphine’s pleasure, Mathilde cupped her , swirling her tongue around her fugitive clit. Time was never a precious commodity; now, every second counted. Staccato words directed her tongue, the tip, the place, the motion and direction. Syllables shattered with a muted cry, and Séraphine groaned on a sea of sighs. Pressed onto her , pushing back on Alain, this was Mathilde’s gift, and the private ecstasy was all hers.
The snatch of air, the rasp of a tongue on wet silk, the peal of ecstasy colliding with the others. This was her time, her strength, and her power, and the mouse roared. A devout moan again, the need to writhe, and that look with the loud exhalation. The moment when Mathilde knew that Séraphine was trapped and about to combust. She relished her sudden juices until she was no longer required. Laid flat, with her fingers through her hair, the aftershocks had Séraphine.
The growing swell of Alain’s erection made her bay for its consequences, bearing down on it, trying to squeeze him into capitulation and paint her insides with all his essence. No, he laid her on the ground. Her torso rose and fell as Séraphine opened Mathilde’s thighs with sweet revenge in her eyes. Pursed lips dripped saliva onto her mound, and she flinched with anticipation. Lofting her towards her mouth, Mathilde might try in vain. Séraphine grabbed her legs, curled her spine, and plunged her tongue into her.
Howling with the sublime punishment, Mathilde swore aloud. With nowhere to go, her legs rested on Séraphine’s shoulders, with her hands kneading her breasts. Mathilde craned her neck and took Alain in her mouth; with sunken cheeks and a swirling tongue, he groaned for her. As a forewarning and the promise of more, Séraphine’s consummate skill, the exact pressure, the vacuum from her lips, and that darting tongue sent her into raptures. Wriggling, trying to shake her orgasm loose, Mathilde was the object of their pleasure, the peak of all her desires. Her shaky grasp took him in hand, and her quick wrist brought him to the boil.
His milk spilt over, first, as pearly spots and then slashes of hot seed decorated her breasts, announced with plosive grunts. Séraphine’s merciless thumb diminished Mathilde to a single point of light.
“Come for me.”
So direct, with the perfect tone in her commanding voice, her prison was debris and dust. Mathilde arched and threw out her arms. Crunching up, loosening, caught in the buffetting waves, Séraphine’s tongue pushed her over the edge. With flaming sighs, it rocketed through her soul. She shuddered and stretched out, bucked and shook. As a crutch to life, her fingers as talons scratched at the carpet. Mindless and panting, fulfilled in a way that no one ever managed to find inside her.
Mathilde’s turbulent body glows with pounding hot blood. She curls up under fresh sheets, warm and content, as her breathlessness eases. She is a new woman in an undiscovered world of new experiences.
Her soporific mind wanders. Dressed, they sat in her office, drinking hot, sweet tea. Séraphine’s full explanation made it easy to forgive her. Still peaky, they found humour in her dominating persona; it was one game to play, and there were so many. Showing her through the shelves in the bookshop, Mathilde was in the presence of someone who understood her. Someone willing to help her nurture and share it.
They embraced as a goodbye, and Alain, with all his raffish charm, smiled with his eyes.
She promised Séraphine that she would call Romy because there is another side to her, and she is unafraid to show it now. Mathilde knows what happened is not a magic cureall, but it is a start. A fresh start.
With the click of the bedside light and a yawn, she let the lamp die.
= The Friends =
It is a lifeless day of dank clouds and frigid January air, and the bookshop looks warm and inviting. Brisk footsteps bounce on the wooden floor, symbolic of her confidence, and they attract attention. They smile as she approaches and exchange two air kisses, one for each cheek.
“Béatrice, so good to see you.”
“And the same to you, Séraphine. On your own today? How is business?”
She nods along, “Very good. George Kouchner was a triumph. He did his book signing and signed plenty of copies of his films, too. I cannot thank you enough.”
“Wonderful! He knew how to create erotic art, and he was such a rascal in his younger days.”
Séraphine laughs, “From experience?”
“Oh, a lady never tells, and George was discreet… and cryptic.” There is a twinkle in her eyes. “I never thanked you properly for finding that poster for me. It is a marvellous icebreaker.”
“My pleasure. I knew how important it was for you.”
“It was the first film I worked on,” Béatrice sighs. “Brigitte Lahaie, such a beautiful bone structure.”
Another name floats in the ether, and they exchange an intuitive smile.
“How is Mathilde?” asks Béatrice, “She seems happier, more confident and has a new boyfriend?”
“Yes, Alain is smitten with her, and I admit, so am I. We meet for the occasional coffee and attended a literary event last week. I think she is reading her way through the bookshop. Romy has a new best friend… they are so conspiratorial.”
Béatrice chuckles, “She is a precious jewel like you.”
“Too beautiful and too kind to be ruined,” Séraphine opines.
“And easy prey for someone to abuse her trust,” Béatrice mutters. “She hid the physical and emotional marks well. It was painful to watch Mathilde shrink into herself. Walls do have ears. I heard his words and anger. We know the type, yes?”
“Yes. It is a gift to receive, not something to take.”
“Her ex has not contacted her for three months now.”
“Good, the bastard.”
Séraphine looks concerned. “Béatrice, do you think Mathilde suspects anything?”
“Has she mentioned it?”
“No.”
“I know you struggle with this, Séraphine, and it is a dilemma, I admit. Was it a deception? Or helping someone reveal their true self?”
“She always had free will, and this is her true self,” she pauses. “Something still bothers me, though. How did you know she would not call the Police?”
“We talked a lot, and Mathilde despises authority figures. We know where that comes from. And, you have seen the painting in her apartment?”
“It is difficult to forget. She has good taste.”
“She does. Le Sommeil is inspired by her favourite poet, Baudelaire. Two postcoital s lying on a bed. I spent enough time on film sets to understand what makes a good . A beautiful woman naked in her apartment is a lot of curiosity to resist. ”
“Romy is a lot of temptation that cannot be resisted.”
Béatrice grins, “And, sometimes, people just need a little… push. How is your imaginary exboyfriend?”
“Instead of my real one?” Séraphine weighs up her choices, “Well… he was such a bad boy, and Yves… it is early days, but I am working on him.”
They laugh.
“Seriously though, Béatrice,” Séraphine takes her hand. “I never forgot what you did for me years ago. This was the easiest decision to make.”
With that, they have come full circle.
“So, Mathilde starts her new job next week. It is a small token, just something to mark the day. Did it arrive?”
Séraphine checks her inventory, “It did. Verlaine, The Complete Poetic Works. Shall I gift wrap it for you?”
“Oh, wonderful. Yes, please.”
= The Jewels =
The decadent atmosphere is thick with the scent of perfume and languid .
Holding Alain close, Mathilde is the sensation of a salacious whisper, writhing like wisps of smoke from the flames. Séraphine takes his place, and her fingers flow as lurching water, sliding, seeking that place she knows well.
Mathilde’s eyes widen, relishing the sight. Alain takes Séraphine from behind, and Yves has her mouth. She wriggles underneath her, invoking her disquiet with the tip of her tongue on her clit. Mathilde groans, too, reaching for Romy between her thighs.
Amidst the shadows of tangled limbs, sound mingles with light, and a colossal wave sweeps Séraphine away. Consoled in Romy’s arms, they caress her breathless body as Mathilde licks her , keeping the embers hot.
This is the promise of a waitandsee game, whispered through the lilt of a warm breeze in a Parisian café. The conspiracy of five individuals with a potent, exciting, and lifeaffirming secret. An evening of summer heat and a descent into a carnal inferno.
Séraphine’s supple curves are a capricious dance of light and dark. She leans over Mathilde, plucking her nipple, and her restless hips beg. Their bodies crisscross; a stocking rests loosely around her knee, and the other remains neatly in place, a motif amidst the sensual chaos. Mathilde guides Séraphine, imploring her to continue. Writhing against her smooth thigh, she pulls on her behind to keep this rhythm and the tactile pressure on her . Yves takes control, and Séraphine pouts, showing Mathilde the majesty of his measured thrusts, punctuating their liplocked passions.
Romy straddles Alain, and her fluid, smearing motion adds her tremulous moans to the smack of lips and their whimpers. She shrieks, making Mathilde giggle and a melee of limbs flail. Taken on her back, she deflates when Alain enters her, locking her ankles around him to cling to his powerful frame. A solitary kiss on Mathilde’s smooth mound makes her groan; it is Séraphine. She laps at her oversensitive folds with a flicking tongue that hits her button, driving her towards insanity. As the harbinger of Mathilde’s fate, Yves slides into her febrile , and she relents to his powerful rhythm, forcing urgent, torrid moans through the room.
Taking Alain in hand, she has them both, swirling her tongue around that corpulent head, Her wet lips wrapped around it, bobbing back and forth, savouring Romy’s essence. Sidebyside, Séraphine and Romy gather in a leisurely soixanteneuf with prising hands and eager tongues.
This is their denouement in the humid twilight that bleeds into darkness. Mathilde is Hippolyta, with Romy as Delphine, lying on the bed in an undulating feminine knot. Lost in a trance, they grind together, against in a rhythmic, elegant contortion. It is their turn as they ascend, their gasps stiffening in louder cries. With outreached arms and their fingers entwined, they accelerate, edging closer to a mutual final climax.
The men are rampant, taken in hand by Séraphine, and her will prevails. Relieving them of their last, it showers their twisting, seething bodies. Romy squeals, spasms and shakes; her free leg flails like a bough in a storm. Mathilde writhes faster as the whitetipped waves teeter at their crest. With cries of rapture, she crashes, shuddering in convulsions, and the lingering tremors ease when she hunts for air.
They all bear the glow of fiery blood tempered by soothing tepid rain. Washed clean, revived by icecool water, they float in a haze of tinkling laughter. A community of one secret, ready to depart for their respective summer sojourns. At the point of their happy exhaustion, they retire.
Mathilde lies alongside Alain. Her fingers caress his face with sparkling eyes and a contented smile.
It swells in her heart; unconditional love has no bounds.
= FIN =
