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With your fingers on my calf, you kiss the bend of my knee and rise from your crouch. My shoes are buckled at last.
"Thank you, darling. Couldn't manage to get the stupid things," I tell you as I rise from the park bench.
You smile and give me your hand. "My pleasure."
I'm rose-colored happy with you, bubbling like champagne, on our trip to France. We've seen Normandy between shows, walked the rocky beaches, and ended up in the back-alleys of the Bohemian district.
Here's where the Impressionists painted, you told me as we walked cobblestone streets. When I shut my eyes, I could see the city in those blotting blues and golds, grass like swift brushstrokes and clouds of cotton.
We walk from the park and you point us toward a café across the street.
"The espresso you wanted?" You remind me.
"Yes, definitely."
We sit outside, across from each other with a little umbrella above us to give shade, and wait for the server.
Everyone here smokes heartily. Even our waiter, Étienne, smells of nicotine. He doesn't make fun of your accent like the taxi driver, even showing his appreciation for your music as he takes our order.
My espresso comes in a tiny cup. I hold up my pinkie while I knock it back and smile at the bitter shock. We share a plate of lemon madeleines, dipping them in cherry jam and making a mess.
"Wonderful," you murmur.
I watch a woman push a baby in a stroller along the sidewalk and nod my head at your words. There's a sunshower somewhere on the horizon.
I stretch out my leg to run it along your calf under the table. "I love being here with you, Jim."
You giggle at me and my attempt at footsie. I hope I make you feel young.
"Me too, sweetheart. I can't imagine sharing this time with anyone else." You finally retaliate, knocking your knee against mine and parting my thighs.
I remember yesterday, the sun at my back and you sprawled out next to me in a field. Our morning picnic. I'd laughed and suggested I could pose like Manet's model in Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe, nude and beside your fully clothed figure. You were awfully serious about it, gently pawing at my dress in order to get me undone, but I'd pushed you away, let you whine as I looked out onto the water at a couple rowing past.
"Where are you?" You ask after a sip of your latte. Your lashes are dark and full. They cast shadows over your cheeks when you turn against the sunlight.
"I've gone back in time," I say. "Thinking of what we could've been if we met a century ago."
"Tell me." I like the way your lips caress those words.
"You'd meet me in a smoky bar, where you'd sit in the corner playing guitar, and I would come by to hand you some change. Your playing's lovely, I'd say. You'd give me that look I know well, with the humble downcast eyes. You're growing your beard out and you run a hand over your cheek as you blush from my compliment. Then we'd walk back to my corner apartment and I'd . . . feed you plums."
Your smile is elegant and your leg is warm and constant against my thigh. "That's how it must've gone, yes. Now, finish these last two, they're too sweet for me." You offer the plate of cakes my way.
I put my fingers to my mouth to stop my guilty smile. How embarrassed you get! Crimson like the glaceé coating my thumb.
You trade your flushed glow for a sun-lit warmth, your profile in gold as you stare out across the city.
