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Page 61.
 We’re just kids playing house.
“Yes, and I haven’t dared yet to touch your boobs.”
She sighed. “It’s such a light, fun fantasy story. It’s a pet.”
They laughed. Pet is the name for a very light pastry, almost nothing but air. Pet means fart. It’s a common name for this light pastry. Emma laughed out loud, relieved, and couldn’t stop laughing.
“No, you haven’t even gotten as far as to put your arm around my waist.”
“I’m going to try it, you know.”
“I see that look in your eyes. I’ll fight you off with a chair and a whip, you lion.”
“I may be a lion, but you are a pussy.”
It’s fun to pretend, to play, to fight like this.
“I am open for business anytime you want to get your whip wet.”
“I’m ready to pull over and take you right here.”
“I wish we could. Too bad you don’t have a van. We could make love in the back and nobody would see us.”
“I’m going to love you in the back, in the front, in the bush.”
“You make me all wet when you talk dirty to me.”
I will never find another woman like you in my life.
As he drove, she gently massaged the back of his neck. “I cried about us.”
“What?”
“We are a tragedy, baby.”
This really hurts—but it’s such a love-hurt.
“Oh god now I am getting all wet again—in the eyes.”
“Don’t, sweetheart.” She nuzzled his ear, nibbled his lobe, snuggled her cheek against his shoulder. “My poor baby. And I am so wet for you.”
He bit his lip, put his arm around her back, and drove along as life must be driven, one stoplight at a time, staying with the flow.
She stroked his chest with feather-light fingertips. “I will never forget you and you will never forget me. I love you, Marc Fontbleu, Léopold Montblé, free spirit. You will always remember me, because that is our fate. Neither of us can help who we are or where we are or what we are.”
Stupid Jérôme. If you were a man, you’d be here in this car, driving this beautiful angel, telling her how much you love her. It would be you in tears over her, not me.
“I love you very much,” he said.
She did not answer, .
They stopped at a petrol station for fuel. There, they went to separate bathrooms and washed their faces.
A while later, feeling empty and in love and in the moment and strangely composed (as in the eye of a storm), he turned the corner into Vincennes Park. Traffic was relatively light today, and they found a parking spot on the outskirts.
The park was full of people. Emma sat glued to him, with one arm over his shoulder, and her other hand on his thigh. Her body pressed against his at every possible spot. This short time was theirs and she was his. Nothing else mattered.
“Looks pretty crowded,” she said, peering past the back of his head at the picnic area filled with cars and people in Bermuda shorts, billed hats, and colorful summer shirts. The cool, dark woodsy air was filled with char smoke and the sounds of barking dogs and squalling children. Joggers, bicyclists, and skaters abounded on the roads.
Marc and Emma had brought only a canvas beach sack with a picnic lunch and some drinks. They started hiking into the woods on narrow paths. After a time, they came to a secluded corner where the ground rose up in a circle, then dropped into a watery pond a few meters wide. It was scummy-looking (healthy, life-sustaining) water, several shades of green and thriving with insect life. Crickets and cicadas chirped somewhere nearby.
“How’s this?” he said, looking up all around at great shady trees.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “So secluded for a big city.”
“Let’s enjoy it while we can.” His hand sought hers, and her fingers eagerly entwined with his.
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