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I am being haunted by
a love that isn’t there.
- Pete Burns
*
Tu n’es plus là où tu étais, mais tu es partout là où nous sommes.
- Victor Hugo
The first time Grantaire saw the figure in the mirror, it was a relief, proof if needed be that he wasn't insane or simply making stuff up. He'd just woken up after yet another dream filled with smoke and screams, and when he'd gone into the bathroom to wash away the taste of blood in his mouth, when he'd switched the light on, he saw a flash. There was a shape in the mirror, right in front of him, and all Grantaire could do was stare.
He wasn't insane.
He wasn't making things up.
But it certainly didn't make speaking any easier. Not after two hundred years.
- Hello, Enjolras... It's been a while...
*
Grantaire had a secret : he was haunted by a life he really should never have remembered. He'd always known since he was a child that things were not right. He had a name, a life, a family, and none of it was anything like he remembered. Because he remembered everything. He remembered that he had called himself "R", that he'd been a twenty-something art student in 1832, and that he'd died against a wall during a failed revolution. He'd spent his life – this life, anyway – remembering names, faces, smells... He'd spent his childhood – this one anyway – trying to convince people that he wasn't insane because he woke up screaming after hearing gunshots, because he tasted wine and blood after nightmares, because he spent days running after people who bore a passing resemblance to old friends he'd known and who'd died with him. It was never his friends, always strangers who brushed him off. But they were still there. Every night he was back there, in a world long gone, and every morning felt like a funeral.
At first he'd tried to be reasonable, to tell himself that he was just dreaming, that there was nothing to it. He'd been told that he was a very imaginative child, that it was an imaginary friend, and later that he was suffering from psychosis or early on-set dementia. Slowly he'd come to the conclusion that he should keep his mouth shut or else he'd end up in hospital, so he kept everything secret and he stopped talking about the faces and the names and the voices.
He let it lie. For a few years he ignored it, thinking it would be the best thing to do. He moved to another city, and then another. He had followed his desire to study art – the only thing from before that didn't seem to be dangerous, and after all that time, he found himself in a tiny flat in a nondescript building somewhere in the Parisian suburbs. It was destiny, he figured. There was no point trying to resist it, just as long as he didn't find himself dragged onto another barricade…
Paris sang to him. He found himself walking around at night, looking at streets and trying to remember how they'd been two hundred years before. He usually ended up lost, following a street he'd known before realising that a building, or an entire neighbourhood had been built right across it, but his nightly walks were calming in a strange way.
He'd come across the Saint-Merry church nearly by accident, and seeing it again made him choke back tears. He'd passed by the tall stone walls so many times, going to and fro from his daily walks with his friends, and the women he’d dallied with … He remembered the little shop just over the corner where Bossuet had found the cheapest oysters and they’d eaten them sitting on a bench near the Seine, him and Bossuet and Joly, laughing together about something so very inconsequential and yet so important at the time… He tried to find his way back to the Musain one day – or at least what the Musain had become, but he couldn’t go any closer than the Luxemburg gardens. His feet wouldn’t let him come any closer and he crumbled next to a tall sycamore and stuffed his fist in his mouth to stifle the scream that was ripping through him. The pain of the bullets came straight back at him, the moments that had passed by like several eternities while he’d lain bleeding and terrified on the wooden floor, his hand still holding –
He couldn’t even open his eyes, the sun was so blinding. He was kneeling on the ground, the waves of nausea coming and going and washing over him, sounds of people passing by and who were probably looking at him like he was a drunk. He would have preferred to be, because at least he knew the hangover would pass.
It took him nearly two months to be able to stand in front of the busy fast-food place that had replaced the Musain without feeling sick to his stomach, but he still didn’t come any closer. A flash of light – something red at the corner of his eye – but when he turned around, he didn’t see anything. But he knew what he wasn’t seeing. And he knew what he needed to do.
He was haunted. He’d been haunted for years.
*
The walk down to where he needed to go was a long one from his tiny flat but he didn’t want to take the bus or the suburban: his head was so full of everything that he needed to clear it. It wouldn’t work, but at least he could tell himself it could help. As he walked, he kept half an eye on his phone; the shop he was looking for wasn’t easy to find, and he didn’t want to run around in circles trying to find it. He passed by a wall covered in wisteria flowers, turned right, and saw the shop he was looking for. Nothing fancy, nothing fabulous, just a wooden shopfront with “Maison de la Radiesthésie” written across it. He walked in, got what he needed, and walked right back out. He didn’t want to wait until he was back at his flat, but he also knew that starting a séance in the middle of the street wasn’t really the best idea he’d had. So all he had to do was get home, light some candles and start.
But once he was home he felt drained, tired, exhausted like he’d never felt before. Like a weight was slowly pushing on his shoulders and pulling on his heart. A flash of red and gold and he fell to his knees with a pulsating pain in his head, his heart beating fast like a drum. He could hear gunfire… It was as clear as the screams, and he pressed his hands to his ears to try to block everything out. But nothing worked, the sounds of the barricades kept coming on and on and on again, harder than they’d come while he was awake.
He couldn’t even remember when they’d stopped – they hadn’t stopped at all, but he’d gone from falling to the floor in his tiny flat, to being back there, on the barricade, surrounded by those people he’d grown to love so terribly much, and those last precious moments were speeding by again.
The smoke was filling his lungs again and he was coughing, his eyes were stinging and he could hardly see anything through them. But what he could see as he made his way up the destroyed staircase made him wish he was blind. Bodies everywhere, staining the floorboards of the Corinthe red. He knew everyone was dead, he’d tried so hard to push it out of his mind or he wouldn’t even be able to put on foot in front of the other. But as he walked up the stairs, he almost walked over the last of his friends; they weren’t dead yet, they still had some light in their eyes and he nearly fell, aching to hold them. He was certain he’d find Enjolras among them, but he was against the wall, surrounded by the National Guard. He wasn’t moving, the light from the window turning his bloodstained hair into a golden halo, and his eyes were fierce sapphires.
Grantaire’s heart hurt. Grantaire’s heart was in agony and he walked past the soldiers without a single hesitation, placing himself in front of them by Enjolras’ side. He could do nothing else.
– Vive la Republique! Count me in. Two at one shot !
Then he turned toward Enjolras gently.
– Do you permit it ?
Enjolras smiled at him – smiled – and then darkness.
*
When Grantaire woke up, he could taste blood and ash. His head was ringing and there were wet patches on his jumper from where he’d been crying. Who knew what time it was, he couldn’t make anything out except the feeble light coming in from his window; he’d not even had time to close the shutters before he’d fallen to his knees.
The dream had shaken him to his core and he staggered to his feet. He’d not dreamt about that moment in such clarity before. He’d dreamt – remembered – everything, and yes, about the barricades as well, but he’d been spared remembering in such horrible, terrifying, painful detail the last time he’d seen them all.
Why now? Because he’d finally made his way back to the Musain? Because he’d found his way back to them after two hundred years? His head hurt badly, he couldn’t get rid of the foul taste that lingered like regret, and he bumped into the ouija board that had fallen on the floor haphazardly. There would be no séance tonight, he felt so absolutely drained. There was always tomorrow – he needed to get his head straight, and try to get a bit of sleep before anything.
But something was different. There was something in his flat that hadn’t been there before, something that felt like cold fingers running down his back. He tried to tell himself that it was a logical follow-up to his dream-vision but it was a feeble excuse. He knew what was in his flat.
Who was in his flat.
The door to his tiny bathroom creaked as it always did when Grantaire pushed it open, and he hesitated with his finger on the light-switch. He knew what he’d see even before he’d seen it and he had to take a few long breaths before he faced the mirror. Light flooded the bathroom and everything changed.
He wasn’t insane.
He wasn’t making stuff up.
His hands trembled, clenched on the sink, and his tongue felt like lead as he took in the sight in front of him.
Reflected in the mirror, pale and half-transparent as moonlight, was Enjolras. Enjolras as he’d last seen him, in all his defiant radiance, his hair unbound and falling over his shoulders, eight bloody stains on his shirt.
Grantaire felt his heart stop. What could he say? Not one of the ten million things he’d wished he said, his heart wouldn’t allow it. Not now, not yet. Not ever, maybe. So he said the next best thing.
– Hello Enjolras. It’s been a while...
*
The apparition hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything. There was no sign of recognition that Grantaire had spoken or even existed, and after a few seconds, there was nothing there. Not even a lingering shimmer. Grantaire stood there for what seemed like hours before he dragged himself back to the bedroom and took the ouija board from its wrapping. He’d changed his mind : the time was right, the séance would be tonight.
He had no idea how to do this. All his knowledge came from a few books, a couple of YouTube videos and his memory of Prouvaire. The young poet had spend probably hours and hours explaining the theory of the otherworldly, a pipe hanging loosely in his fingers, captivating all those who would listen. Of course ouija boards hadn’t existed back then – the young man had used tarot cards – but most of what Grantaire did hearkened back to his dead friend’s way of doing things. He rummaged around his drawers, found a couple of candles and made sure the board was bathed in moonlight – an easier thing to achieve in the 1890s, but he was in luck that the sky that night wasn’t too cloudy, not too polluted and that the street-light under his window was broken… The last thing he needed was a catalyst, but opium and laudanum weren’t as easy to find these days either, even if he did live in the suburbs of Paris. The smoke-filled rooms of the past would stay in the past, he had other options. There was an open bottle of vodka in the kitchen cupboard, and it would have to do as good as anything else.
The candles were lit, the board was ready, he already felt the warmth from the alcohol, all he needed to do was start. First, he had to move the planchette around a few times and think of an easy first question, according to his extremely cursory internet research. And yes, he was playing alone which was apparently very frowned upon, but he didn’t know anyone well enough to invite them over to help summon the ghost of the man he’d loved two hundred years ago.
He had to admit that he was feeling a little stupid but he diligently placed both hands on the planchette and closed his eyes.
– Are there any spirits here that wish to communicate with me?
No answer from the board and he tried again but without any luck either. He must have sat in front of the board for almost an hour with absolutely no hint of anything. After everything he’d seen just a while back…! It was so fucking frustrating! No-one wanted to speak with him. The board was silent, and the ghostly figure of the leader in red had gone, and all this was absolutely idiotic and useless and – !
He almost threw the planchette at the wall but instead just sighed. Yelling and breaking things wouldn’t help either, but he just felt like dumping everything out the window and be done with it. It had probably worked for Prouvaire – either that or their poet had been fooling himself and everyone else. He wasn’t asking for much, just for a sign, just for a single sign, and once again the universe didn’t seem to want to help.
Ok then. Maybe he needed to do one more thing.
The next day he was at the Luxembourg gardens again. He hadn’t been able to step closer to what had been the Musain – he still couldn’t – and he was standing under the pouring rain, hands in his pockets, watching the cars drive by and the people coming in and out of the building. And like the Corinthe it too had disappeared; gone were the crooked stone walls stained with moss, gone were the smoke-filled rooms and grubby windows that Grantaire had spent long hours looking out of. That Musain was gone forever and all that was left was concrete on which stood a fast-food restaurant. The rain was cold, the water was dripping off his hair and into his neck, and he knew that he couldn’t stay like that forever. He’d catch a cold or something worse, and he could almost hear Joly’s worried voice, fussing around and telling him to sit closer to the fire, to dry himself off or he’d fall sick…
– Fine, Jolllly… You win. I wouldn’t want to worry you to death…
His shoes squelched on the soaking pavement as he made his way to the restaurant, and all the time he was thinking of several things. A lot of things. A lot of names. He remembered almost all the names of the people he’d spent his last days with – even if Enjolras had probably thought him incapable of remembering anything else than the labels on his bottles…
It was stupid, there was nothing left of the Musain he’d known, it was all in the past… He wasn’t sure what to expect so he simply ordered a coffee and went to sit down in the back. He was looking at the people moving around but he wasn’t seeing them. He was seeing a world that had disappeared along with everyone in it…
He saw Bahorel and Jehan smoking at a table, exchanging stories and laughing. Joly and Bossuet were in front of one of the windows, speaking in low tones and their hands pressed together. He could see Courfeyrac and Feuilly reading near the fireplace, smiling as Combeferre came over with three glasses of wine. He could hear their conversations, he could feel the warmth of their company. He missed them so much he had to force himself to not break down in his cheap coffee. He kept his eyes unfocused, drinking in all the phantasmagorical scene before him, until the thing he most wished for and most dreaded happened, and a flash of blond hair came into sight.
He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, didn’t even let the tiny moan escape his lips. Enjolras was there, in front of him once again, moving among the assembled friends with a smile on his lips and papers in his hand. He’d always ever had words of kindness and comfort for those who were at his side, no matter the situation. Even when it had been the end, Enjolras had found words.
Grantaire had always thought that Enjolras was the bravest man he’d ever met. And like all the brave men in History, like all the Amis in his dreamscape, he died bloody.
But unlike the Amis in his dreamscape, Enjolras was looking right at him.
Grantaire shuddered as he met those beautiful blue eyes. They were exactly the way he remembered, exactly how he’d seen them in his bathroom mirror. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, he was transfixed.
– ...Enjolras…
*
The next night, he took the ouija board out again, setting out the candles and getting the bottle out. He didn’t feel silly this time, he felt desperate.
– Enjolras, answer me? I know you’re here, I saw you. I saw you… I promise I won’t annoy you, I promise…
His voice cracked on the last word.
– I promise I won’t annoy you, I won’t even talk, just...just say you’re here! Let me know you’re here, I need to see you again!
This time there was the tiniest clatter. The planchette was glowing every so slightly, and slowly moving all by itself across the board before it settled on the “R”.
Oh.
Oh that was what he’d been waiting for. Something inside him shifted and he stayed silent and still, hunched over the board. He was shaking from all that he didn’t dare let pour out…if he did, he might never recover. And when he straightened up, the glow from the planchette had expanded, shifting, growing brighter and dimmer and forming into two hands, fingers nearly touching Grantaire’s. And sitting in front of him was Enjolras. Enjolras, dusty and bloody with tired eyes and unbound hair.
Grantaire felt so close to breaking down in sobs, he could hardly control himself.
– Is...is it really you?
– Grantaire.
The planchette was moving but Grantaire heard the words in his mind. He could hear Enjolras’ voice again, and all the pain, the regret, and the pure, sheer love came rushing back like an avalanche.
– I...I miss you.
– Grantaire.
– I miss you, Enjolras… I miss you so – I miss you so much and I’m – I’m so sorry…
– What for?
– Everything?
The ghostly apparition flickered and Grantaire reached out instinctively, trying to stop Enjolras from disappearing – a ridiculous fear, and he only managed to pass through empty air. He panicked straight after, terrified he’d managed to sever the connection and that he’d never have another chance , but the softly-glowing outline of Enjolras reappeared.
– You do not need to apologize.
– I fucked up. I fucked everything up… And now you’re dead, and they’re all dead...and I can’t forget everything I did.
– You didn’t do anything.
– Exactly, and that’s the point! Maybe if I’d done more –!
– You’d still be dead.
It hit him like a well-placed punch and he nodded slowly. What had he expected? A heartfelt conversation, soft nothings whispered under the light of the moon? Enjolras hadn’t changed in his view of him, still regarding him as nothing but a drunken nuisance at best. It was unfair, but he couldn’t find fault in that.
He’d deserved it a hundred times over.
– I did die. And I remember it, all of it. I remember all our friends dying… I can’t forget that. I saw their faces on the floor of the Corinthe, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I hadn’t…but at the same time, I don’t ever want to forget. I’m the only one who knows – who remembers – what happened. And I remember their faces…
– I won’t ever forget them. But they died for something they believed in.
– Do you really think that?
– I refuse the contrary! We fought and died for what we believed in, or else what was the point of it all? Without faith, what is the point of anything?!
*
They were fighting already. They were fighting like they’d always done, as if they were still both alive, as if they’d not both died bleeding out on a wine-shop floor. Enjolras had given him his hand, they’d found some sort of peace before the end, but apparently that peace had disappeared again. And Grantaire only found himself to blame.
He held his hands up in submission, not meeting those eyes that would be blazing blue as ever. He was being himself again and he felt so very guilty.
– Sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight… I didn’t do this just to be my annoying self again. But you’re haunting me, Enjolras. Everywhere I go. Since I arrived in Paris I’ve been seeing you, I know I have. I went back to the Musain and you were there, you saw me...and you were here. Why?
– What are you asking?
– Why are you haunting me?
– I don’t know, Grantaire.
– Why are you the only one I see? Why haven’t the others come back?
– I don’t know.
– Have they remembered?
– I have no answers. Truly. If I did, I would give them to you, I wouldn’t begrudge you that. But I don’t know. I would think Prouvaire would have some theories, but…
Enjolras fell silent and Grantaire nodded.
– I miss them so much.
– I know. I miss them as well. Every moment that passes reminds me only of how much they meant to me.
– Can’t you see them? They’re – they’re dead, like you, and you can’t be with them…?
– I can’t explain it, Grantaire. Perhaps they’ve moved on, and I simply haven’t. They’ve reached paradise, or what else might await us all after death. Perhaps there is a reason for me to linger.
– Perhaps…
Grantaire didn’t even try to hold back the choking sound as he replied. A reason to linger… He could fantasize a hundred reasons why Enjolras might have a reason. A reason to stay a little longer around the living – around him. But he never would have stayed for those reasons. There was nothing, there’d never been anything that implied that Enjolras would have wanted to stay for those reasons.
And now the sun was rising. He didn’t need to have read classics or studied ghost mythos to know what this meant. The sun was rising and now the spirit of his Apollo would disappear.
– Stay with me?
– You know I cannot.
– I don’t want to let you go! Not again! You don’t understand, I can’t let you go, you might not ever come back!
– Maybe not. But I cannot stay when the sun rises. This much I know.
– Ironic. Apollo leaves when the sun comes…
– Do not call me Apollo, Grantaire. I have never appreciated it.
And that was it. Enjolras shimmered, wavered, and was gone. And all that was left was Grantaire sitting on the floor in front of the ouija board, feeling all sorts of things again. Most of those things were shades of regret and disappointment, and he simply sat where he was.
Why had he not said it straight out? Why had he simply started to argue? It wouldn’t have changed much, but he could at least have said it. It couldn’t be hard to tell a dead person that you loved them...especially since it wouldn’t change anything.
Well.
He slowly packed the ouija up, blew out the candles and fell into his bed.
*
The next day he went to his classes, did what he had to do, grabbed a coffee from one of his usual haunts and went straight back to his tiny flat. He reheated an instant meal, sat in front of his computer to watch some inane, mind-emptying stuff while doodling, before falling asleep. He did the exact same thing the next day, and the next, simply working and sleeping, but not interacting with the ouija in any way, shape, or form. He still dreamt about his friends and he still woke up with the taste of blood on his tongue, and he still missed them, but he couldn’t imagine taking the ouija up again.
Until he did.
Until he woke up in the middle of the night with his ears ringing and the remnants of the screams that had woken him up. He knew that he had to finish what he’d started or it would eat at him until he died (again).
It was so strange. He’d thought so long and hard about Enjolras being here with unfinished business, that he lingered because there was something that was missing, but Grantaire knew that he had unfinished business as well. He had to have the answer to the question that had never left him.
The board came out of the drawer, the candle – although at this point it was nothing more than a stub – and this time he really didn’t bother with the vodka. There was no need for a catalyst, his mind was swirling in enough murky places. He sat down, lit the candle and placed the planchette on the board.
– Ok. Enjolras… If you’re still around…?
The only thing that answered was silence, like the first time he’d tried contacting the spirit world intentionally. He waited a bit, playing with the flame on his stubby candle, hoping there’d be an answer, but nothing.
Fuck. Had he really only had one chance and like the genius he was, he’d fucked it up? It wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest, he didn’t exactly have the greatest record of successes.
– I need to talk to you… Look… I hope you’re there. Please? Enj…
– I’m here.
The transparent figure of Enjolras was standing near what passed as a bookshelf in the tiny flat, in the same bloodstained clothes, but he seemed less severe than the first time. Almost as though the invocation hadn’t bothered him so much, and Grantaire nodded slightly.
– I thought I wouldn’t see you again.
– And yet, here we are. What did you want to say, Grantaire?
– A lot of things, unfortunately, and I know I won’t get all the answers. But I really need to know one thing...
Grantaire swallowed. It was only one question and it wasn’t coming out, and that was because he couldn’t bear to hear the answer. But he had to know, and how else would he know other that by asking that damn question.
– Why did you take my hand?
– What do you mean?
– You took my hand, Enj.
– Why wouldn’t I have?
– Because you… Because you hated me?
Here it came. He couldn’t hold it back any more, this tide of self-recrimination that just had to spill over after two hundred years.
– Because you hate me! Because I spent my time drinking and being generally useless! Because I only came to the meetings to stare at your face and start arguments and –
– I never hated you, R.
Well. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting, not in a hundred years. He’d imagined this conversation a million times but it had always ended in some sort of fucked-up screaming match. He’d entertained the notion one time – one time – that the screaming came from something totally different than their arguments, but he’d never dared dwell on it.
And now Enjolras was looking at him with softness in his eyes.
– I never hated you, R. Yes, you were annoying but I never hated you. And I know why you came to the meetings.
– Like I said, I came –
– You came because you had friends there. You came because you felt you belonged, even if you didn’t care about all the political work we were doing. And how could I tell you to leave? It was your place. The Musain would have been so empty without you.
Enjolras walked closer to him, that pensive look back on his face. Grantaire couldn’t hold back the small choking noise in the back of his throat. Enjolras had no idea what he was doing to him at this moment, just by doing that. And then the fire came back into those brilliant blue eyes as Enjolras stared right at him.
– Enj…
– You asked me why I took your hand? You stayed. You could have disappeared, you could have left the barricade, no-one knew you there. You could have gone down the sewers, far from the guardsmen, you could have gone back to your life. As much as you made out that your father didn’t accept you, you knew as much as we did that he would have welcomed you back with open arms. But you chose to stay. You chose to stay, R. You stayed with us. With me.
– I couldn’t… I couldn’t do anything else. It was selfish, actually. What would I have done without you all? And...why are you… I mean… Don’t take it the wrong way, please, but why are you telling me all this now? You didn’t speak much last time…
– Seeing you again brought out...memories. Things that I hardly allowed myself to think and certainly not to voice. And burying myself in the cause helped me do exactly that.
– Enj, stop. You’re just saying these things…
– Are you calling me a liar?
– Of course not, but –
– You think all that I say is only what you want me to say? Do you not have a little faith? You asked why I took your hand, and I reply. Because I wanted to. Because I wanted you to be with me, at the end. Do you believe me?
– Enj…
– I’m sorry I was so harsh. You didn’t deserve it, my friend.
– But I was really annoying, wasn’t I?
– There are days I wanted to strangle you, R.
They both laughed softly in the silent air of the flat. The stars were starting to fade outside and dawn couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours away, and this time there would be no second chance. This was all they would have. This much they both knew.
– I really did love you, Enj. I still do.
– I know.
– Do you think that if we’d had time, and if I’d been less of a drunken fool, we could have had something? Something like...like some of our friends had?
– I cannot say. I was focused on the revolution, maybe too much. But perhaps, if we’d had time, if things had been different, if I had been different… Could I have let myself…? I cannot say, R. I’m sorry.
– It’s – it’s ok. We can’t change what’s been and gone, can we?
– No, we cannot. But I wish…
Enjolras gave a sigh, his shining form leaning against the wall, just under the window. The remaining stars flickered softly – a crown of fading light over the ghostly hair – and he stayed so still that Grantaire was almost certain that he was already gone, called back to the light, to Paradise, to wherever ghosts went to when they’d finished their work among the living. He didn’t dare speak, just in case it would end the spell, but finally Enjolras looked at him, with nothing but softness in his beautiful blue eyes as the morning light began to pierce through him.
The time had come.
– I wish we could start everything over once again. I wish this more than anything. Will you find me again, R? Will you stay by my side, this time again?
- Enj...
Grantaire was crying. Oh fucking hell, he was actually crying. He’d managed to keep it together until that point, and he couldn’t go any further. He didn’t care any more. Nothing mattered any more except this.
– I’ll find you, Enj. No matter how long I have to search, no matter where. I’ll find you. I promise. I promise you. On my life…
It was the end. The morning light was upon them, and the last of the night had gone. Enjolras was no more than a shimmer, a hand’s breadth away from Grantaire; and when Grantaire went to grab it, like a drowning man reaching for breath, Enjolras smiled and the words he spoke next dissolved into the light.
Grantaire had heard the words – seen them rather – and he stayed sitting and crying on his apartment floor.
*
*
*
Time passes and many, many years later, among the throng and the bustle of a Sunday afternoon, two figures are sitting on a bench in a sunny park. The trees are rustling softly in the breeze and there are the happy sounds of children running after pigeons but the two figures don’t notice any of that from where they’re animatedly talking. After all, it’s August in Paris and what can go wrong in August in Paris when you’re with the one you love?
(sometimes they think things – imagine things. One or the other sometimes wakes up with the impression that they can’t breathe, or a sharp pain in their chest, but then they nuzzle closer to the other warm body next to them, and the dream disappears)
