He lay beneath the stars of a Van Gogh sky, the scent of cherry blossoms evoking memories so potent that tears filled his eyes. Gazing eastward towards the pale blue mountains, keenly aware of the sun dipping below the horizon, he whispered her name.
“Yvette.”
A cooling breeze danced past, reminding him that summer had long ago fled into autumn and that all too soon the fields would be blanketed in snow.
He wondered if she still thought of him. If her memories cast nights spent with him in light or in shadow. Sultry nights spent under an awning, a half-empty (she would have insisted it was half-full) bottle of Peneau de la Loire standing, like a sentinel, between them while an accordion in a nearby café filled the night with love songs.
She’d always arrive late, keeping him waiting, much to his amusement. It was part of her charm, she’d tell him, laughing at his feigned annoyance.
It was a well-established pattern. She’d kept him waiting for three-quarters of an hour on their first date – a visit to Musée de l’Orangerie, no explanation nor apology offered. Just a coy smile and a brush of lips against his that promised… oh so much. They’d shared a kiss, their first, though not their last, before the vermillion hulls of sailboats, moored upon the Seine, their sailors filling the air with song.
“I thought he only painted waterlilies,” she’d quipped. And then she’d kissed him.
It was a kiss he still remembered vividly. A kiss filled with promises. And lies.
That night they’d sat in silence beneath slowly spinning galaxies. Holding hands, calves disappearing beneath the surface of the pond, the scent of cherry blossoms creating memories so potent that tears filled Yvette’s eyes. Gazing eastward towards a sun slowly rising above the pale blue mountains, keenly aware of a soft breeze playing through the leaves, she’d slowly undressed until she was clothed in shadow and moonlight.
