Remi, when we travelled to the old house, I saw your expression tinged with regret. I wanted to console you, but I have no words. I must be bright and pretend and say nothing about your pain… our pain.

The early morning had not lost its crisp air. Eating my pain au chocolat, I watched you because the front door would not budge. Always, you are the taciturn tower of strength, the door groaned, dragging a pile of mail that blocked our path. We prised ourselves through the gap.

Your grey T-shirt is nothing special, but I adore how your muscular body flexes beneath it. The colour compliments your hazel eyes with their flecks of gold. They are the windows to your feelings, and this place should not haunt you like that. You asked me to wear something old. My dungarees with thick denim straps and pinafore front are shapeless and disappointing. It hides my figure, something I cannot tempt you with.

You ask me to help because I understand, it requires no explanation. This was your family home. You said you cannot remember being small, and this house is the treasure box to your childhood. A modest place in the suburbs, with dull white render and mossy brick tiles. You have a scar on your leg from falling off a ladder, painting the green window frames and shutters. Their lustre is dulled, the paint split and chipped now.

Dull parquet flooring stretches out before us, and the air is musty. You find the circuit breaker, and there is a solitary light in the shuttered gloom. Letting the daylight in, your ghostly pallor is not your best, and my hesitant smile finds you in a reflective mood. I wonder if you can hear the echoes of laughter and half-hearted admonishments. I know you loved them with all your heart. I wish my parents loved me half as much, too.

We pick up the mail so you can return to La Fourgonette, your pride and joy. That pristine silver van purrs like a kitten, resplendent in corrugated steel, emblazoned with ‘Durant et Fils’ on the sides. Father and son, working together. You are not a rich man, but you have all the riches in the world.

We have a job to do, and as you walk outside, I wait.

Watching you gather some boxes, you sought refuge in your work and extended hours. I have missed you and our chats. I should hug you so you can feel something, but this has been an impossible two months. Waiting for you to talk, it is a subject as remote as the desert with no oasis. You are an orphan twice over, and my heart weeps for you. Seek comfort, Remi; you were the son they always wanted. When they adopted you, they loved you as one. I know for sure because your mother told me so. She always had that expectant look in her eye for me – woman to woman. She knew what you meant to me. I wish… I wish I could tell her before she was gone.

Two years ago, losing her was heart-wrenching, and you gave a remarkable soliloquy. Your father, that was a grievous blow. Again, friends and family called on you for the eulogy, and I heard the crack in your voice. Courage is conquering fear, and for those precious minutes, you did.

That bright light in your eyes dimmed, and then it extinguished. I have not seen it since.

Standing in the lounge, we open all the windows, and even the birdsong is mournful. Every place has a memento and a story to tell, and everything has its place. Curled photographs are wedged into the ornate picture frame over the fireplace. Their travels, family snaps and your father’s time in Iraq. He was a brave man in the Army and a good man to you both in peacetime. I linger over the chronology of gilt-framed pictures on the occasional table. From you as a child, a teenager, a young adult, to who you are now. A strong, handsome, self-assured man entering your fourth decade. You are your father’s son, and I wipe the dust off them in respect.

I peer into a larger photograph of the three families, the Durants, the Auberts, and mine, the Lamberts. Three houses in a row, three families interconnected, and we played in the street until dark. There is me, skinny in a summer dress, sitting on the doorstep, clutching my legs as a tiny shrew with a scabby knee – the tomboy, your best friend.

My family continue their adventures elsewhere. Maman and Papa retired and live in Limoges; my older brother is in Toulon. I have no idea what happened to the Auberts until I see a postcard hiding behind the picture frame. They live in Chartres and seem happy.

It is you and I now, Remi. We are all that is left here. Us, and our separate lives.

-=-

Emptying the vacuum cleaner, the cloying scent of furniture polish lingers in the air. I am no cleaning lady, but I cannot bear the idea of Remi doing this alone. Seeking closure is a brutal business. Many have the opportunity, and I understand now if someone cannot face it.

The clomp of boots upstairs makes the ceiling creak. The pipes rattle, followed by an expletive. Another competes with the gurgle of running water and the whispered determination of the tired gas boiler. I stare at the packed boxes and their pen-written intentions, keep, throw, and give away. Sunbeams from the open windows catch the motile dust. We need a breeze, and my prayers are answered with a solitary gust, lifting the lace curtains and banishing more staid air. Amidst the crackles and pops of a Charles Aznavour album, there is poetry in a heartfelt moment when his heavy footsteps descend.

“Finally, hot water.”

His sense of achievement is infectious, and I admire the Remi of old for a moment.

“Well done.”

We stand side-by-side, staring at the boxes. The intimacy of the lounge is no more. Shoeboxes are filled with photographs. Trinkets as talismans imbued with powerful memories are carefully stowed away.

“Upstairs is much better, too. Still a little musty.”

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, “Just as well. A whole house like this room would be too much.”

Peering out the window, Remi nods and gives a wistful sigh, the low sun illuminating his features. As the perfect canvas to convey his thoughts, and with that winsome smile, he is easy on the eyes. His face has two good sides, and a rugged jawline matches his physique. I divert my gaze when he checks his watch.

“Elise, do you want me to take you home?”

What home? A shared apartment with my dull flatmate, no thank you.

“In evening traffic? No, we should stick to the plan. The sooner we do this, the sooner you can sell it.”

Careless words are often said in jest and Remi flinches. It is automatic, and my hand on his forearm is our first rapprochement in weeks.

“I am sorry,” I whisper mournfully, “Clumsy words.”

His head stoops and my deeply-held instincts kick in. Though we are dusty, I want him to find solace. We embrace, and his broad hands clasp my back. Close to him, with this torch I bear, its burden increases, but he needs to know I care. We are friends, nothing more, and that time has passed.

“My sincere condolences, Remi. I never could find the right words. Your Dad was an amazing man.”

“I struggle to understand it, too. Words are the most impossible thing to find. Thank you.”

“If you ever need to talk, I am here. Do not keep it bottled up.”

“Okay.”

He squeezes me, and I need this, too.

“Promise me, Remi.”

“I promise.”

We break, he offers a muted smile, a reassurance there is no ill feeling.

“Look, it is seven o’clock,” he shows me his watch, a habit as old as time itself. “Seriously, thank you. I could not do this without you. We should eat, but I will show you to your room first.”

We smile. Remi could just tell me, I know this house inside and out. Perhaps it is a connivance between us. No, he averts his gaze.

“Thanks. I really need a bath.”

It threatens to be awkward until Remi grins.

Reaching out, he wipes a smear of dust from my cheek. “Yeah, me too.”

It will not be together. As much as I would want that, I must suppress my imagination and how my body yearns for him.

-=-

Upstairs might be jaded in its décor, but Remi did an excellent job cleaning it. I am in the old spare room, better than my first home in Paris. The bed with fresh sheets will provide a good night’s sleep.

Old habits die hard, and we should sit at the small dining table like we did as children. We do not; we lounge in the bare room, stripped of its personality. The wallpaper is bolder where a picture has gone. It is darker now, and a solitary lamp illuminates us in shadows.

Picking over crudites and slices of pizza, I am ensconced on the old settee. Comfortable in the soft towelling of a bathrobe, I relax, wearing the fresh scent of bergamot and holding a glass of wine. My wet hair is loose, drying in the dying warmth of this summer evening. I recharge our glasses. Remi sits in the armchair in a clean t-shirt and shorts – like father, like son. Only those with a certain chemistry can be contented in silence.

He leans over to take his glass, “Santé.”

“Santé.”

We raise an implicit toast to the departed. My intuition can sense it, and I know my bathrobe is not tight around my frame. I am fresh-faced, not that I wear much makeup, and reclined into the corner, the robe ends mid-thigh. Once, I was a tomboy; now, I am a woman. I have the contours and curves my Maman gave me, a cinched waist, hips that sway, and broad shoulders that match the flare of my breasts.

Another record drops from the stack and plays. This feels like an exorcism for Remi’s mind, and these are the songs I remember growing up. This happy home was always filled with music.

“So, what will you do with the house, Remi? Have you decided?”

He mulls over my words, “Honestly, I do not know. I am something of a fool.”

“Oh?”

Looking around, his eyes rest on mine, “I was wary of coming here. I should not have left it so long after…”

Dark emotions crease his features, and I cannot bear to see him like that.

“Too many memories?”

Rescued, Remi chuckles, “Only good ones.” He sighs, “You know, I left seven years ago, and it feels like yesterday. It is strange, but I wanted that to be my biggest memory of this place. When they were…”

I finish his sentence again. “Not like now?”

Solemnly, he shakes his head, “Not like this.” He looks around, “No… not looking like this.”

“I remember when you moved out.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was finishing my Bac, thinking of university.”

“I remember, too. You looked at me funny. I never understood it.”

“Oh?”

Remi pauses, “I never did ask you. It is something I have never seen since.”

“No?” Controlling myself, it would be easy to splutter with incredulity. Remi must have seen that look before; he had a girlfriend then, and he had one until only a few months ago, too.

“No,” he muses. “What was it? Something on your mind?”

My lips purse, and he tilts his head, inquisitive like a puppy.

“You want to know?” I will not smile.

He withdraws, and I damn myself, it was the perfect moment.

“No? Oh, well.” I summon all my restraint. “I guess it will remain a mystery.”

Remi does not bite; the game is over.

I venture on a path of cynicism, made of rocks to climb and many disappointments, especially with men. I am not unattractive, although I should pay more attention to my appearance. I have a good figure and get my fair share of attention. I should do more to accentuate it. Confidence is not something they taught me at school.

As a child, I wanted to be a princess, but growing up, I never sought a fairy-tale ending. I knew my place as the unremarkable girl next door. My friends could be found in these three houses. I understood at an early age this world is not perfect. As an adult, my heart is a base metal, and I am timid to everyone except Remi. The good things that happen to me are the small things in life.

We are two people making a living, anonymous if you pass us by, but we are not ordinary; no one is that. Everyone should pursue their dreams; mine was to teach, but they do not always come true. We should all have three-score years and ten, too. Remi’s parents did not.

Life is not fair. I am not a Princess and will not tell my Prince Charming.

“You had a crush on me.” He grins.

Remi piques my interest again.

“You flatter yourself,” I retort.

“Oh, do I? Well, I had a crush on you.”

“No, you did not. You kissed Aimée Barbier in front of me, and you had a girlfriend when you moved out.”

He scoffs, “You kissed Léon Colbert at that party in front of me!”

“He kissed me!”

“You kissed him!”

“I did not, and he had bad breath.”

“Pah.” Remi mocks me.

I laugh, and he sips his wine.

“We are best friends,” he offers. “You do not kiss your best friend.”

In the long pause, Remi is pensive. “I wish…”

He stares at the fireplace.

“Remi?”

I see it, an intensity, and he leans in, “I wish we were young again, and I made different choices.”

“You speak as if we are old,” I wave his concern away. “You are thirty, and I am twenty-six. We are not old.”

“Seriously, Elise. I wish I stayed here. I do not like Gennevilliers much.” Remi grumbles, sitting back in his chair. “You stayed here.”

“Only because I could not afford accommodation in Paris.”

“You got your degree and did the right thing. You always did.”

“Did I? I moved out when I got a job. You stayed when you had one, worked with your father and lived with your parents.”

He nods thoughtfully, still troubled by something.

“You know, Remi, they were very proud of you. You are not like my brother in Toulon. You dropped by every weekend and worked with your father every day until he retired. The business thrived in your hands, and you shared the profits. Do you remember growing up?”

Remi snorts, “Of course.”

“And money was difficult?”

“Uh-huh. It was for all of us.”

“When you started working, and the extra business you brought in. They stopped worrying about it. They travelled, and they had more freedom to do all the things they promised each other. When you moved out, they were delighted. Their hard-working son had all grown up. Your mother told me this. No, she boasted about it. Their job was done. They brought you up and brought you up well. Remi, you did everything right and more.”

He is too modest to take this as a compliment and weighs up my words. “But… it is not that.”

The silence returns, and I am discontented.

“Okay, Remi, what would you do differently?”

His features tighten like a coiled spring.

“Remi?”

They soften in defeat. “A rendezvous… with you.” He sighs long and hard, “Dinner, just us, something romantic.”

Flustered, my crutch is more wine, “You… you said it yourself. I am your best friend.”

“Elise, I understood that look you gave me. I understood it, and I did nothing.”

Remi shakes his head, and I can see his regret.

“Perhaps… this is a rendezvous?”

“Really?” I snort. “You know how to show a girl a good time. How would you say it is going?”

He stands, and my stomach lurches. I have gone too far again and scared him away. The record player runs out of vinyl to play. There is the hop-hop of repeating static, and he places his glass on the coffee table. Anxious, usually, I can understand his body language, but not this.

Remi kneels alongside me, leaning over with an arm to brace himself. Memories flash before me, hopes, dreams… fantasies. He pushed Didier Piaget into the mud at school, defending my honour. He was my protector when I was bullied.

“It has been a long time, Remi. We were young. It was a crush.”

He looks so sincere, “But, we are not old.”

That gaze, I see it again. It was my eighteenth birthday, and I prayed he was my biggest present.

“Can I kiss you?”

His earnestness kills me.

Glancing at his lips, they dwell again in his honest eyes. “I am not your best friend.”

The gap between us narrows. When our lips meet, it lingers as the world ends. Blissful, emblematic of Remi’s pure heart, and in their gentle caress, my heart soars. Everything, for the memories I can recall and the sentiments of those forgotten, they fold into each other, over and over, into a powerful need. It consoles the teenage angst from years ago and my ridiculous hopes this morning. A motive force within lurches for a dream I never imagined would come true.

Focussing on his kind smile, it is the rising sun of a perfect new dawn.

He places a solitary finger onto my lips, “Now, I am home.”

I am undone.

“Remi,” I gasp, and with my open arms, we fold into a close embrace for more.

-=-

The staircase creaks, and I hold his hand, leading him with a mix of excitement, arousal and nervous energy. Into his old room, the bedsprings complain as we recline. He does not undress me; it would be simple to do so. My mind is aimless in this tangle of limbs. All I want is more as our passion burgeons. To my neck, he finds a weakness there, along my thigh; I need his patient caress to rise higher.

Trembling with desire, we lie there, catching our breath. Remi’s fingers sweep a lock of hair from my face.

“What are you thinking?” I have to know.

He might ask me for anything, and I would give it. He smiles with a twinkle in his eyes. That light is there again, and I beam with a broad smile. I have missed that so much.

“Elise, I… I do not deserve you.”

I kiss him quickly, “Do not forget that.”

He smirks, “I will not.”

This knowledge of each other is perilous; we understand our personalities, yet we are at the rubicon of the unknown. I provide all the permission for more in the curl of my lips, their tactile pressure, and my communicative sighs. From my narrowed feral gaze, they implore him for more. I brush the side of his face with my hand, able to see inside the enigma and the flames that burn within. I lean over him, and he flexes under my emboldened touch. Scrutinising him, I draw a pattern over the hills and vales of his abdomen. I feel the heave of his torso and jackrabbit heart.

My experience is with immature men, and those who came before Remi are the scales that lift from my eyes.

Remi is upon me, and I can feel his passion, yet he holds me as if I were made of china. There is tenderness and a velvet touch; his hand slides into my robe. Clasping my breast, I ignite. Lightning bolts zip through me, and the excitement tightens my breathing. His thumb flicks at my nipple, and the dark void of my mouth gasps open. He seals it with a plunging kiss, and I submit.

Oh, Remi, take my soul hostage for a lifetime.

I seek abandonment; he is the man I will give myself freely to. My unbroken caress roams, constrained by fabric. I am not afraid, and this is how I show it, one searching kiss after another. I will implore this man to make me his lover and the love of his life.

Flushed, suppressed by the bathrobe, I kneel above him and roll my shoulders. Cooler air does not temper the heat within. I am naked, and I want him to look as I throw the robe over his face and laugh like a drain. He is not slow to remove it, and I prowl above him. My breasts drag over his clothed chest, and my lips press to his for more. His semi-naked leg rests between my naked thighs, and he will feel how I burn. He groans softly, tempted by the song from my temptress lips. My persistent hands tug at his t-shirt until he relents, arches his back, and I grapple to free it from him.

Skin against skin, my breasts squeeze against his torso. I take his hand and press it to one, and the thick, stubby nipple that craves his touch.

“Yes, Remi.” I gasp and plunge for him again.

I must know; I can feel it rest along his oblique, pressing into my taut belly. Hot, menacing, and my one-track mind must have it. I question if I am too forward and if I should relent. No, I am a woman, and my hand slips along his side as our lips push and pull, goading with tongues, intensifying an ardour that will raze us to the ground. My hand rests close to his knee, and as it rises along his inner thigh, He fidgets until I capture its dimension in my hand. It is rigid, vicious, a challenge, and I provide a playful squeeze.

My most private desires are so vivid now they are real. All the years of anticipation spice my actions. Countless regrets dissolve with each kiss, and the connotations are clear. Signposts lead to an inevitable journey’s end… and a possible new beginning. This would never be an act to resolve a curiosity, and this powerful realisation thaws my body and mind. Instinct takes over where years of doubt paralysed me.

Remi groans again, deeper and coarse; it vibrates through me. I rise, sitting over his legs, confident in my nakedness, and tug on his shorts. For all his latent power and might, I revel in his vulnerability, and he has no idea how I melt inside for him. I have to pick it up, savouring the nuances of his reaction, watching him plead. Stroking his malevolent shaft, his entire body softens with narrowed eyes, and I will not contain my amusement.

It has heft and weight, and I am torn. It would be so simple to straddle Remi and bring him into my body. I need him there urgently, and the powerful conviction beats through me, pounding as a battle drum. There is always a choice, and he might take me instead. We press together as our hands scour each other with snorts of air, and I compel him further until we teeter at the brink.

He might roll me over, rise onto locked elbows, and, with my legs wide open, push into my liquid folds. Asserting himself, I would acquiesce, overwhelmed by the moment. Taken, ravished, the foil to a brute… my brute. I would wrap my limbs around him, revel in his strength, flexing back on his thrusts to encourage more.

This is our first time, with all the awkwardness of its novelty and the fear I am a fragile object. Remi is a stranger to this as much as I am. He might hold brittle sensibilities and be easily offended. Yet, my mind fuses with sparks. This could be a love that blossoms in the harsh winter of our emotions. I must learn to trust my instincts again.

“Let me,” I whisper in his ear. “Let me show you what that look meant.”

Straddling his hips, my unkempt hair conceals an eye. I gather it up and shake my head, scattering my mane. Grinning, I am his tigress and provocateur, grinding against his iron shaft pressed against his sculpted body. I am taking possession, towering over him with an intense feminine lust.

“I thought so. This is what that look means,” Remi murmurs, grinning.

“No, this is not it.”

I giggle at his frown.

Writhing on him, I scrutinise him closely and pitch up a little. Squat on one leg, I hold it there, poised to take him. Remi will see that look on my face and never forget it. He will know when I need him this way. Squared up to impale myself, I will savour his reaction. He dares not blink as I gasp, and my features soften. Those widening eyes are the signal he enjoys the honeyed tension. It presses against my liquid walls as a snug fit, grazing everything for an unsurpassed pleasure. I must brace and be more determined, yet it buckles my mind.

Kneeling, I drop my hips, and my addiction is complete; I am hooked. I must pace myself, and that requires all my restraint. Remi kneads my breasts as I rise higher and plunge, and higher still, to feel the delicious violation of his entire length.

I have it all to the hilt, and we are coupled as one. I am full.

“You understand now, Remi?”

“Yes.” His breathing is sudden and sharp.

I ride him at a canter, enjoying the sublime sensations it provides, and Remi gazes at me in awe.

-=-

We cast shadows against the wall, and time has no meaning. Remi’s body can feel weightless, or he smothers me as if I were his plaything. His variations keep me guessing, finding the places that animate me into breathless cries. He shakes me into fits of deep moans and clinging limbs, or we move as elegant flotsam on a sleeping sea. I can pull on his behind to charge my stallion or throw my hands up in abandon. I can press into his broad torso for a luxurious, slower pace.

Between my legs with his skilful tongue, I squeeze on our interlaced fingers to damn everyone to hell. I take that rampant shaft in my mouth and make him beg like a captured thief.

Oh, he yields for me, and I am no angel. I take his gift in my mouth and swallow it all. Yes, Remi, I am that kind of woman, your woman. You will want me, and you will make me feel desired. Lighter in spirit, we have consummated ancient history and glow with gratification. The last of the wine tastes like ambrosia from the Gods.

It is not enough. We are not equals; we are greater than the sum of our parts. We break the ice again, and from the clamour, our urgent need to breathe, gasps, groans, and with our energetic bodies, we are relentless for each other. This is the chemistry I crave, intense passion and heartfelt emotions.

Brought to climax over my prone body, Remi slumps into my arms, and our two hearts thump as one. We rest sticky in the mire, and he holds me safe in his arms. Words always have a meaning in these quiet times in between, and there is nostalgia. Old memories lead to a story as the foundation for a new hope.

The musk of sex is heavy in the torpid air, and I rouse Remi again. We mean to be gentle as a patient celebration of our new life together. With poise and posture, from on top, beneath him, and from behind. Passion is a merciless mistress, and we have to obey. We never hear the ticking of the alarm clock over his arduous thrusts and my cries of rapture. I cling to him as we shake the bedsprings into a cacophony of noise, digging in my heels to fight back and forcing the sea into a turbulent froth. I am no safe port in a storm, clasping and snatching at him to yield what is mine.

He asserts himself and flips me over. Taking me on all fours, he holds my arms back. Ravished at last, my spine curled, and the metronomic pace of his loins slaps my behind. My secret desire to be dominated and his attempt to tame me compounds the sensations.

I groan in surrender, “Oh God, Remi, yes.”

The curve of his shaft reduces me to airy gasps, nourishing the rising tension. As my heavy breasts sway, I try to buck back, and he interrupts our rhythm, fully impaling me. It bends my mind, sending my body soaring. I need a man who can handle my petulance, and this… this is the cure. This is the fantasy that gets me off on a lonely night. Baying for more, his brooding thrusts shake me, and I am in pure lust, whimpering helplessly as his toy.

This is sexual chemistry, and I am lost in its haze. Remi lays me prone on my front and stabs at me. The constant invasion and precision of his thrusts make me moan at their apex. It is so hot, pressing at me, touching everything. The pressure to squirm balloons, swelling larger, and I am overwhelmed by his strength. Grazing that place, I am overloaded, reduced to soft yelps. He knows… he knows what I need, and I must relent to it.

“Oh… oh God, I need to cum.”

His body cannot confine the ominous rapture, and I croak as the shuddering amplifies. Convulsing, surrounded by his seething mass, it is my most potent yet. My brain is fogged, and I am obsessed, I need more. Remi has guessed so far. Now, I will show him who I am.

For him, it was an act of attrition, and his body is sheened by its exertion. Malleable, one kiss at a time, I fight back, stroking him, using all my feminine guile until he lays on his back. Straddled, full of rigid meat, I writhe against the hilt of his shaft. From my perch, my determined expression and snakish hips cajole his gruff moans. Guiding my hips for maximum pleasure, I thrust my breasts forward. His shovel hands clamp to them, and his mouth follows to devour their nipples. Taking his wrists, forcing his arms over his head, I stare him down and smear back and forth.

All his sinews tighten, and it comes at a cost. What was fluid becomes mechanical, and I struggle to contain what he provides. He is my match, and his stamina is too much. Remi rises against me, braced on locked elbows, and I throw my arms around him. Wet, urgent kisses and diving tongues are the flame to the fuse.

“Yes?” I hiss, “I can… I can do this, too.”

The bedstead clashes against the wall, the frame creaks in time with my loins slamming against his, and my cries shift octaves as I rock back and forth. Helpless to stifle myself, it vents from me, shaking hard with a tremulous cry that vents all my demons. His masterful grip of my quivering body keeps me upright.

Our lips press together, saliva smeared on them, and my senses are livid. This is a forewarning of the passionate times to come; this is what all our failed relationships taught us. Our desire is resolute, yet we tire. Hot and clammy, and my lank hair lashes as nine tails. My serpent hips tempt as I watch the fight drain from him. I plead, clinging to his immovable body, sobbing for lungfuls of air and pressing my feet on the bed. Dragging the cauldron of my sex back and forth, he swells against my hungry walls.

“Yes, oh God, yes. It is yours, Remi, take it.” I pant faster. “Please… please take it.”

He needs to see this intimate moment as the remnants of my petition fade. Grinding, jerking fast with automatic hips, the violent pulses come with plosive grunts, and Mother Nature squeezes him dry. I will have everything he has left.

Cradled in my arms, I nuzzle his salty shoulder as he slumps.

Bearing his essence within me, he is mine at last.

“Wow,” he gasps breathlessly, “You are not my best friend.”

Clutching his face, I am exhausted, and my lips on his make their final plea. “Remi, I have wanted this for so long.”

Pulled into his arms, he rocks me slowly, “Me too, Elise…. me too.”

-=-

Another cup joins the plates, draining at the sink. Peering out the open window, the scent of honeysuckle from the garden provides a faint tingle of joy, and cheerful birdsong encourages a happy sigh.

I was never a city girl, and I was never domesticated like this either. Still, we learn and grow.

There are many things I cannot wait for, and the metallic purr of Remi’s van sends a ripple of excitement through me. Of course, I will not show it, and I continue to rinse the cutlery, placing it down to dry. The hinges no longer squeak, and that door does not stick. He is still heavy on his feet, but I pretend not to hear him.

Closer until I can enjoy his scent, and I take pleasure in the little things these days, too. How he eases his hands around my waist, a small appreciation of how I make him want me. Tilting my head, he places his lips onto my neck and gives me a squeeze.

It quakes through my soul.

“Mmm, hello, Remi. How was work?”

“Oh, the same, which is good.”

“Yours?”

“I like it better than my old job. It fits better around my studies.”

We all have a dream.

Drying my hands, I turn and frown at his unusual grin. “What?”

He produces a miniature Eiffel Tower from a pocket and leans over to attach it to the fridge. He glances at me with a strange expression, almost childlike.

“Sardinia.” He points at a different fridge magnet and grins at me.

“Yes, our first holiday together.” I reciprocate, understanding this game.

“Limoges.” It is another one.

“Meeting my parents.”

Remi smiles; he can be such a child, and he impressed them with that charm. He looks around, and I can see the love of my life contented. He never sold the house. Instead, as a true labour of love, we renovated it. The windows and shutters shimmer with glossy green paint, and the house shines in brilliant white render. The floors in their natural mahogany gleam, and we have decorated them to our tastes, along with our furniture.

It is our home now.

“The Eiffel Tower.”

He takes my hand and kisses it – just as he did then.

I beam at his proud smile. “Where you proposed, darling.”

He defers to me. “Where you accepted, darling.”

Under it, he places a photograph of us, an impetuous moment when we asked someone to take a picture. Two natural smiles burst with happiness. He must have gone somewhere to get it printed.

This is our ephemera, and our house will be a treasure box of memories.

A swell of pride lifts me from just another day because it is not. Every day with Remi is special.

He understands that look I give him too well, and taking his hand, I lead him upstairs.

“I thought it was Chicken Chasseur for dinner. I am hungry.”

Glancing behind me, I giggle, “Good, because I want my dessert now.”