Category Archives: Prose/Fiction

The Windows of Venice 

She had breakfast alone behind the fading mist of last night’s passion. Haunted by lovers come and gone, she stared vacantly through the windows of her Venice apartment. The salty air drifted in from the sea. Images arose in the prism of her emotions and a surge of desire brought her back to last night. Would he return? Was it real? 


Photo credit: Shabana Feroze http://thesilverkickdiaries.com 

Twitter: @silverkick 

Les Affaires

“What kind of woman does that?” Solange said, her eyes fixed intently not on me, but on the screen.

We went to the cinema more to escape the rain than to watch the film. It was a neighborhood I was all too familiar with. Saint-Germain des Près was where Jean-François and I spent the last nine months as a couple.

“I would have seduced him.”

I laughed, knowing she would have done just that.

It was all a ruse. Jean-François and I were intelligence agents, operatives on a covert mission.

“What kind of woman seduces her superior officer only hours after they are introduced?” He grinned and lit a cigarette, his blue eyes peering into mine.

We had both known what the assignment would require. Our first night together was not unlike the one in the movie. With light from the Eiffel Tower visible from our windows, we gave in to our baser instincts, as the Americans say.

“You’re still in love with him, Danielle,” Solange said. My closest friend could always read my thoughts.

“That’s absurd,” I said.
But it was true.

©2016 Cate Derham. All rights reserved.

Encounter

Pardon me, while I forget your passion.

My first thought when I saw him that afternoon after the rain stopped. Three straight days of rain was the perfect ending to my vacation. Paris was colder than usual for early spring and I was suddenly homesick for Marseilles.

A week ago we had met. “I’m sorry, I seem to have taken the last table.” The café was crowded then as it was today.

“No problem,” I said. My heart sped up when he smiled and I looked into his soft brown eyes.

“I was actually only waiting for the rain to end.” I clutched my umbrella a bit too tightly at the fib. It had rained that day, too.

“Oh, but I can make room at this table if you don’t mind sitting next to me.”

I was suddenly unable to move, my brain giving me all kinds of mixed signals. Run. Stay. Sit down. Politely decline … and run!

I sat down when he made room and he smiled in a way that made me believe he could read my every thought.

“Forgive my rudeness, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Jean-François.”

“Eliane,” I said, almost in a whisper.

We didn’t make love that day. Not that I wasn’t willing, even eager, and I sensed his amusement over my ‘exquisite torment’ as he put it. When we did make love it was in his elegant apartment overlooking Rue de la Paix.

We had hardly finished our wine when he kissed me. My legs nearly gave way as his arms encircled my waist and he pulled me closer. Parting my lips, I allowed his tongue to find mine. He deepened the kiss and lifted me in his arms, carrying me to his bedroom.

He put me down and hooked his fingers over the waistband of my jeans, pulling me to his bed. Undoing the zipper he slid them down until I could step out, and in a moment I was in his bed.

I found myself helping him out of his pants as he took off his shirt then grasped my wrists. My arms stretched above my head on his pillow, he kissed me passionately, exploring the length of my body with his hands. I arched my back at his touch. His fingers were between my thighs lightly caressing my wet folds. He pulled me to him then, knowing I was close. He entered me confidently, thrusting relentlessly, endlessly, until we both came.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and took me into the waiting bath.

“When did you have time for this?” I said. He smiled and kissed me.

We made love again and again, and I tried to forget that I had to leave Paris and return home.

A week later I was trying to forget him. His brown eyes and attractive smile. His passionate embrace. His deceit.

Perhaps I should have guessed he was married. Perhaps I did guess it and blotted out the thought.

I was equally to blame but I couldn’t feel the guilt I should have felt.

Places

I am a wayfarer

A wanderer

Though I never leave this spot

In the sand

My favorite place

Is this corner of

The Musée d’Orsay

I never leave

The sun is in my rear view mirror

The sea is behind me

I find a cloud and follow it

Can we pretend you haven’t left

Your lips are so close to mine

I hold the salt air on my tongue

As our breath mingles

And our lips almost meet

But you smile and say not yet

Not yet?

You pour the wine

And say all the right things

I look down and say

I have to find a place

In the sand