Chapter 3: The Rapture of France

Through my mind race the images of us standing chest-deep in the sea and me asking Jan to marry me. I can’t help but smile at the hilarity of the situation. Jan, standing naked in front of me and of the shocked expression on her face as I make my proposal. I realize that we are not in an ideal location, so I lift Jan into my arms and trudge up the beach.

Her silence at first fuels my fears of rejection. I can feel her sobs as she buries her face in my neck, and the heaving of her chest as the tears stream down her face and onto my neck.

Back in the hotel, I ask her to sit down on the sofa. I kneel at her feet. “Jan, will you do me the honour of accepting my proposal in marriage?”

“Oh, Robert, I can’t.”

“Why not, what prevents you from accepting. I know you love me, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I love you. Is it that I am too old for you?”

“No, Robert, this comes as a shock to me. I don’t know what to think. I do love you ... no, I adore you. But there are so many reasons that this would not be right for either of us.”

“Such as what?”

“Robert, I’m not comfortable with the difference in our social status. I also would want to go back to my studies. I am not just a Barbie doll you can play with. Mind you, I love your style of play. I need to be me and not just an extension of you.”

I stand and go to my trusty briefcase and come back to kneel at her feet. “Jan, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” I say in my best Marlon Brando imitation.

She giggles through the drying tears. “What’s that?”

“I want to be engaged to you for the next part of our trip. Give me thirty days to convince you to marry me. That’s all I ask.”

“What happens at the end of the thirty days?”

“Either you accept to marry me, or we break the engagement, and we both go our separate ways. By the end of the time, you are the one who will be asking me to marry you,” I say with a tone of confidence that is feigned.

She frowns and I cover her hand with mine. “Just thirty days? Okay, Robert, I owe you at least that.”

I take her hand and slip a ring on her finger.

“What’s that?”

“An engagement ring.”

She looks at it for a moment and asks, “Where did that come from?”

“My briefcase. It was my wife’s engagement ring. I can think of no one in the world I would want to give it to except you.”

“Robert, I couldn’t. That ring must be worth more than I used to earn as a waitress in a year.”

“So? If you decide to break our engagement, I would probably dispose of it. Now wipe those tears. I have evil designs on your body, and as my fiancée, you are now bound to obey me.”

“Obey! That’ll be a frosty day in hell. However, if your designs are truly evil, I surrender my body to you. For now.”

“Just be ready tomorrow. We are leaving.”

“Already? Where are we off to?”

“To the sunny side of France, where the women wear no pants and the men wear glasses just to look at women’s asses,” I sing.

She bursts out in a moan, followed by giggles. “Robert, you’re terrible.”

“I know,” I say, carrying her to the bed after stripping her out of her bikini.

“Have I convinced you yet?” Robert spoons me, his thigh wedged between mine and smeared from passion’s split wineskins.

I smile into the pillow’s snowy shoulder. “If anything, I’m a little more confused about some things.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Mmm ... I can’t decide which part of you is the most talented.”

“Judging from the way your derriere is nudging me, I think it’s made up its mind.”

“It could also be trying to unkink all those inner muscles I never knew I had.”

“Probably because they’ve never tried so hard to lick someone back before.”

“Their expertise wouldn’t have come close to yours.”

“Don’t be too sure. You had a full-on ballet going on between those thighs while you sang the aria.”

“I was pretty loud, wasn’t I?”

“Music to my ears. And to whoever else was listening at the door if they were lucky. No, don’t hide your face.” He kisses the side of my neck until the wall-mounted pastel of Matala inches into view again. “That’s better.”

“Is that why the theater was standing room only?”

“You’re so cute when you giggle. What do you think?”

“From what I felt on my leg, I think it’s a rhetorical question.”

“And through what - five encores?” His fingers trace a question mark under the swell of my breast, their heat encouraging the room’s air-conditioned coolness to suckle a strawberry point from it.

“I lost track, and I adored every minute. Care to make it six?”

“Already? Greedy girl, you are.”

The trail plummets past my navel and halts a millimeter shy of the slippery thread his tongue had embroidered into a tripwire for a volley of implosions that milked his embedded finger. Instigator and accomplice had teamed up to ensure my pleasure points had done the equivalent of a fifty-crunch set.

“Not for me. For you.” I wriggle around to face him and nuzzle his shoulder. His erection springs naturally toward my touch. “It’s my turn to get down on one knee. Or both.”

He tries to intercept my downward motion, but I’m too fast. Exploratory licks mine sea salt from his ball sac, man-salt from his precum-drizzled cock, deep groans from his chest.

When I’m ready to open wide, all he can do is swell and spread the plush curtain of my lips while his hands sift my hair in a hedonistic quest for leverage. He finds it and floods me instantly.

I don’t realize I’m touching myself until my engorged pearl feels the ring’s icy flick.

Have I convinced you yet?

My breath catches, but I’ll think about that later - once the shock has worn off.

Robert is on the phone, finalizing arrangements for the next part of our trip. The sound of his voice from inside the room comforts me as I grip the balcony railing, high on a magenta sundown and hurtling through a universe of mixed emotions.

It would have been so easy to say yes, to be swept away in the rapture of the moment by the most wonderful man I’ll ever meet.

He is wonderful. That’s the trouble. Yes, to be his lover is indescribably delightful. But marriage? There’s a curveball, as they say.

I don’t want to hurt him by failing to be the wife he deserves. I’ve grown to care for him too much.

The hard truth is, he’s known me for less than three weeks. Matala’s aura is too potent an aphrodisiac for his proposal to be anything but impulsive. Would he have asked in overcast, buttoned-down Boston, where more of his peers - and mine - are waiting to pronounce judgment?

Dusk covers the whitewashed villas and coaxes pinpoints of life from their windows. Uselessly, I wonder what my parents might have thought. Ever my pillars of encouragement, they’d been on the way to an exhibition that featured my class’ work when another car struck them head-on. A rush of guilt sickens me, and as always, I suppress the unbearable implications.

The reasons I gave Robert are genuine, but there are some I’m not ready to admit, even to myself.

We land at Aeroport de Nice, Cote d’Azur and promptly jump into a cab that barrels down the road into Nice.

“Where are we going, Robert?” Jan asks.

“To pay a visit to my great-aunt, Ketty. We will be staying some of the time here at her apartment.”

“Your great-aunt?”

“Yes. I think you will find her fun. What you are not aware of is I was born in Egypt. When we left Egypt, I lived with Ketty in that apartment. She is an extraordinary woman and very eccentric. During the war, she was part of the Resistance and smuggled downed British fliers out of France. She was decorated by both the British and French governments for that.

“My grandfather, her brother, maintained that she only did it because she got to screw around with the young pilots.”

“So, that’s where you get your frisky side!” Jan eyes widen. “Isn’t she married?”

“Well, she was married to the Baron of Bavastro, but it didn’t last long. On their wedding night, she came down the grand staircase of the hotel yelling at the top of her lungs ‘He’s impotent.’ They got the marriage annulled on the condition she would keep her mouth shut and be able to keep the title of Baroness.”

By this time, Jan is in stitches and almost rolling on the floor of the cab.

“She seems to be a woman I could really like.”

“I hope so.”

“Robert!”

This is yelled out as the door opens, and I am immediately enveloped by two arms; my face is surrounded by two massive breasts. I struggle to extricate myself before I suffocate or am rendered unconscious by the emanations of Chanel Number 5.

“Tante Ketty, how are you?”

“Still kicking, thank you. Now who is this young lady?” she says, spotting Jan standing behind me.

“Tante, I’d like to introduce you to Jan, my temporary fiancée.”

“Your temporary fiancée? Have you finally gone gaga? What the hell is a temporary fiancée?”

“Well, she is trying to make up her mind as to whether we should marry. I have given her thirty days to decide. If she refuses at the end of that period, she is free to go her way, and I will go my way.”

“Idiot! Come here, girl. Let me look at you.”

Jan steps into the apartment, and Tante Ketty eyes her from head to foot. “Well, Robert, you are an idiot. You have made this pact with her instead of carrying her to a church and forcing the priest to marry you on the spot.”

“Welcome to my home, Jan. Please feel free to make it yours while you are here. I can understand your hesitation as he truly is an idiot, but he has a good heart, and the body is not bad for his age.”

“Thank you, Baroness, you are most kind,” Jan responds with an appreciative laugh.

“Stop with the Baroness shit. That’s for the rubes. You are almost family. My name to you is Ketty.”

“Thank you, Ketty.”

Ketty leads us to the living room, where she invites us to sit. “Now tell me the whole story in all its gory details. Gory details are what I live for these days.”

“What, Tante, no boyfriend?”

“Robert, some respect for my advanced years, please. The young ones won’t look at me while the older ones who have interest are wimps and losers. They also don’t have the vigour to satisfy me. I’m always afraid they will drop dead in my bed. Enough procrastination. Talk!”

I tell her the whole story from placing the ad in Boston through our Venice stay and the Greek excursion.

She turned to Jan and asks, “Is that the whole unvarnished truth, child?”

“Yes.”

“Robert, do you have anything to add to that tale?”

“No, essentially, I told you how it is. I, however, have my own insecurities. Am I too old? Will I stand in her way to making a life for herself? It goes on and on and on. However, my darling Tante, I am ready to fight against all obstacles to convince her. I am an old fool in love, so I will try to surmount her objections in all possible ways. Tomorrow we will go to seek career advice for her.”

“Bon. C’est assez pour le moment. Jan, go and change. You and I are going out for tea, and a girl to girl chat.”

“Par ici, Baroness, Mademoiselle.”

The maitre d’ at Le Negresco whisks us through a sullen gauntlet of would-be patrons hoping for a glimpse of the glitterati and a story to tell their friends back home. I trail Ketty’s perfumed wake to her table in a sun-washed salon richly paneled in coffered wood, where portraits stare haughtily above gossiping clusters of upholstered brocade. Its traditional dignity reminds me of the Brahmin Rand, where I’d met Robert, only much more so, as only the French can embellish.

Tante Ketty, webbed in Cartier’s finest glitter, shrugs her cape with a flair worthy of Isadora Duncan. A steward rushes to her side and draws a bottle from its silvery ice bath. In a torrent of French, of which I understand maybe three words, Ketty orders for us.

Between sips of bubbly something I can’t pronounce, Ketty resumes the lively chatter she’d begun in the taxi that brought us here. She’s a wealth of information and a gifted storyteller. I lean forward and devour her words, careful to keep my elbows off the table.

“Robert,” she pronounces as the French do, with a silent ‘t’ and caressing the second syllable, “was so pleased when he told me about his first job. ‘Tante,’ he said, ‘I got a paper route, every day before school.’ He used to love it when I read him the funnies. Now he got to carry them around to all his neighbors. Such a hard-working young man. I’ve always known he’d be a huge success.”

“You must be very proud of him.” I’m grateful for Robert and Ketty’s insistence I changed into my fanciest dress. The platinum and diamond jewelry that seemed ostentatious in Boston quietly rejoices in being upstaged by Ketty’s vintage Dior bar suit, custom-tailored to accommodate the monstrous cleavage and generous hips.

“He is a marvelous catch ... if I do say so,” she winks. Her features, while not beautiful, are strong and compelling. Experience’s etchings fan direct, intuitive eyes. “I suppose he’s filled you in on my sordid past,” she adds with a dry chuckle.

“Robert told me how you helped the Resistance, and that he always enjoyed his summer visits with you, Tante Ketty.”

“Don’t bullshit me, young lady. I know my nephew too well.” She waves an elegant but empty cigarette holder at me. “Well, now that the idiot’s not here to put any pressure on, tell me why you hesitate to accept his proposal.”

I flinch. Tante’s arched brow softens. “Whatever it is, Jan, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Here, finish your drink first.”

So as not to offend my hostess, I gulp the Baccarat flute’s fizzy contents and try not to burp. In the upper tier, the most famous leading man in French films, whose name I can’t recall, is schmoozing a sleek, ebony-skinned rap star. Either he’s a fan or an opportunist moving in on the braided beauty, whose husband/manager is currently in Macau.

Oh yes. Taryn B, that’s who she is. And Robert has asked me to marry him. The whole situation is surreal.

“I know this is a cliche, but it’s all so sudden. You heard what Robert said. Only a few weeks ago, I was broke, in a dead-end job and a deader-end relationship. Demographically, he and I couldn’t be more different.”

“Rubbish. I had no title, yet I married a baron. Try again.”

“Ketty, I’ve always wanted to paint and perhaps even curate my own gallery someday. Maybe that’s unrealistic, but I want to achieve something I’ve worked for, not just what’s been handed to me. I’m not cut out to be the perfect trophy wife or a charity-ball doyenne -”

What better time to test a door to Robert’s past? “You’ve met Marjorie, haven’t you, Tante Ketty?”

“Non. You are not going there with me. Whether I have or not, has no bearing here. That part of his life is over. Fini.”

When the waiter delivers the salads, she pauses to whisper something in his ear. “Oui, Madame,” he genuflects and backs away.

“You must think about now,” she presses forward, “and how you will make the future with the man who loves you, the very best future it can be.”

Her alert gaze darkens with melancholy. “Robert has told you about my many lovers. C’est vrai... it’s true. But a string of conquests doesn’t make for lasting happiness. For every hour the bed’s warm, there are countless long nights in the cold. It’s been a very lonely existence, believe me.”

The fork trembles in her bejeweled fingers and she stabs at an olive to cover it. “I would trade every man I’ve ever bedded for a single chance at what you and Robert have. Truly, I would.” A long wistful sigh, a tuneless melody from an unfulfilled life, punctuates the sentiment.

Mischief reignites her eyes. “But don’t tell him I said so. He enjoys my bawdy legacy. No need to spoil it for him.”

I smile weakly. “Of course not.”

“Now what?” Ketty snaps with mock impatience.

I can’t bring myself to tell her about the strange, moist feelings that slipped into me when the Greek Adonis handed over my missing bikini piece. How can I have this reaction for another man, while in love with Robert? Doesn’t that make me less than worthy of him?

“What if it isn’t love?” I ask the space above Tante Ketty’s fedora.

Shouts erupt from the balcony. Taryn B is storming away from the French movie idol, who squints and splutters through what’s left of the rap star’s cosmopolitan.

Tante munches on, oblivious to the drama. She swallows, dabs the bow of her mouth with folded linen.

“Ah ... but what if it is? Cherie, none of us can know when our last chance at love will come. For you and Robert, this could be yours. Don’t let it pass you by.”

Then, with a strident bark, “Eat, girl. Michel tosses the best Nicoise you’ll ever taste. And you can’t make such an important decision on an empty stomach.”

Jan returns from tea with Ketty wearing a bemused look on her face. “What’s with you?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing, Robert, Ketty and I had a grand time, she has given me a lot of food for thought.”

“Now that must be a first. Ketty giving you food for thought. I would have thought she would pander you to a Greek shipping magnate or some madam who was looking for staff for her bordello. But food for thought. Wow!”

“Robert! You know darn well why you insisted I go with her, so behave.”

“Yes, dear. Now go get changed into the sexiest slinkiest outfit you have. I have this burning desire to make all the ‘Haute Societe’ drool at the sight of you on my arm.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To one of the greatest dens of iniquity in the world, Monte Carlo.”

“Robert, I don’t gamble.”

“Neither do I, to tell the truth. However, we can’t be here and not go and pay our respects to the gods of luck. Just a tiny respect mind you,” I say with a smile.

Jan returns looking as if she was ready to walk the red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival. Even Ketty lets out a wolf whistle at the sight of her while my heart leaps to my throat.

Ketty asks, “Where are you two going?”

When I tell her Monte Carlo, she reaches for her purse and calls Jan over. “Here are 50 Euros. I want you to place them on red at the roulette wheel. If they win, you put half the winnings in your purse and repeat the bet on red. In all cases, fifty percent of all winnings go into your purse. Then switch to black for one turn then return to red. Keep that up until you have no chips left to gamble and in no case ever take out what you pocketed.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Jan offers.

“I’m too old, I don’t fit, and Monte Carlo bores me.”

“I take it that the car is available and serviced,” I ask.

“Of course! I take care of your toys,” she says, handing me the car keys.

I lead Jan down to the garage, and she stands there in awe, so I take her arm and lead her over to the car, a 1955 Mercedes Gullwing.

“Robert, is that what I think it is?”

“Well, that depends on what you think it is, doesn’t it?”

“Jake, my former paramour, the bastard, was a car nut. He said that if there were one car in the world he coveted, it would be a Mercedes Gullwing.”

“Well, you are right. I call it ‘Nono,’ my grandfather’s folly.”

“Why?”

“He bought this car in 1955 and drove it for about 1000 klicks. He then lost his driver’s license for reckless driving. It sat in the garage for ages as he refused to sell it. His will left it to Ketty and I. So here it sits as she no longer drives and calls this car a ‘tap cul’ - an ass-spanker - and just has a man come over once a week to drive it around the block to keep the engine in shape. Slide yourself in.”

The ride along the Corniche with the sea on our right, and the gleaming lights and luxury hotels on our left, is short. The car roars through those 14 kilometers till finally, we are winding down the hill into Monaco to the Casino’s parking lot.

As Jan and I enter the casino, I hand her 200 Euros.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“You can’t come to Monte Carlo and not wager. You would regret missing the opportunity for the rest of your life.”

“Robert, I don’t believe in gambling.”

“Honey, all life is a gamble. Just look at it as Monopoly money and have fun.”

Her first mission is to carry out Ketty’s orders, so we march to the roulette table. Jan is the cynosure of all eyes as both men and women look at her and speculate as to who she is.

Her confusion at the table is palpable. I explain the rules and procedures to her before she nervously places the bet as per Ketty’s instructions on red. Having won according to the system she was given, she bets four times in a row on red, then one turn at black. I feel her gain assurance until she loses the fifth bet. But she plugs on, following the rules given to her.

Half an hour later, she turns to me and admits, “I’ve had enough. I don’t understand why people do this.”

“They dream of getting rich or richer. The reality is that the only winner is the casino. Greed makes them bet all that they win. They hope to their last Euro to recoup any losses. It’s regrettable. Now come and let’s try to do something with your gambling fund. Come with me.”

I lead her to the Hall of the Americas, which is where the slot machines are placed. “Now choose a machine, sit on the stool and start feeding it chips.”

“But Robert, what if I lose it all?”

“Just play and don’t worry.”

The succession of frowns, followed by smiles across her face, makes it worth my while to just sit next to her and watch the flow of emotion. It is evident to me that she sees her loss as a defeat and the wins as a victory. It is also apparent from the way she counts her chips that she is not a gambler.

I ponder as to whether she will be willing to take the gamble of accepting my proposal. Then the moment comes as bells clang and lights flash. Jackpot. It is not a huge one as she has been betting just ten or twenty Euros a spin. But it more than covers what she has played to date and then some.

An attendant shows up and assists her in collecting her winnings. “Robert, that’s enough. I know to quit when I’m ahead. Let’s call it a night, take me home and let me snuggle in your arms.”

The cashier transforms the chips to Euros and Jan is awestruck when he hands her almost 1500 Euros for her, and Ketty’s fifty Euros has morphed into 375 Euros.

On the drive back to Nice, she lays her hand on mine, which is on the gearshift and gives a long sigh.

“What’s wrong, darling?” I ask.

“Robert, I had the strangest reaction to gambling.”

“What was that?”

“It made me horny,” she says sotto voce to me.

“When we get home, I will be more than happy to help you with that dilemma.”

“But what about Ketty?”

“Our bedroom and the en-suite are entirely soundproof. My grandfather insisted on that being the case when he used the apartment. A herd of elephants could cavort in there and no one would be the wiser. Now be a good girl and make me horny. No, hornier than I am already.”

“How?”

“Hmm ... remove your panties and rest your bare ass on the leather seat and raise your dress so I can see your lovely legs.”

Blushing, Jan complies, handing me her minuscule panties. I bring them to my face to inhale her sweet aroma. Glimpsing to the side, I detect her wet pussy lips at the juncture of her sculpted thighs. I reach over carefully and finger her lightly. She is horny, so horny that she’s sopping wet. I bring my fingers to my nose and savour the smell of her sweet secretions before licking them off my fingers.

Thank god we are almost home as my erection is rampant and I am almost ready to stop, carry her down to the beach and make love to her right then and there. Maybe even bend her over the Mercedes’ hood for a quickie first.

The warm breeze entering through the car’s open windows is having an effect on her as her hand steals downward and she lightly strokes her fingers through her pussy lips and thumbs her clit.

Her moans are music to my ears. I think I set a new speed record from Monaco to Nice.

At the apartment, Ketty is still up. “Well, lovebirds, how did it go?”

“Ketty, I did like it as an experience, but it’s not a vice I think I’ll adopt.” Jan responds.

“Did you win? And more importantly, did you follow my instructions?”

“Yes. Here are your winnings, 375 Euros.”

“No, child, I only get 200 Euros. You get to keep the rest.”

“But...”

“No buts. I set the rules. Now you two smell as if you are in a rut. Robert, go do your duty, hard as that may be for you. Goodnight. I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight, Ketty.” Robert clicks the latch and catches my wrist as I’m reaching yet again to adjust the ridden-up dress. “No use, Jan. Tante has already seen your state of deshabille. But don’t worry - she’d expect nothing less from us.”

He notices I’ve gone catatonic and allows me to lead him toward the terrace doors’ nocturnal glow. With a flourish, he opens them to an encore presentation of the jeweled nightscape that blew kisses of enchantment upon our drive from Monte Carlo.

Such vibrant currents are coursing from Robert’s hand into mine that I feel if he were to let go, the skyline would fade to black. A surge of happiness blurs the streetlamps to backlit candyfloss.

“What a night this has been, Robert.” I turn to face him, eyes brimming. “I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

“It’s not over yet.” His fingers coax a skirt from the culottes my thighs’ honeyed trails had made of it. I stand very still in the hope they’ll climb into the free space, but he chooses self-restraint and smoothes the fabric into place with a finishing pat on my tush.

I smile to cover the disappointment. “The best is yet to come, right?”

“With a few surprises along the way - good things for those who wait.”

“Like unwrapping a present?” Robert had shed his jacket when we left the casino and draped it over one arm as I giddily squeezed the other. The unfurled bow tie begs to be drawn clear of its collar. I oblige, then loosen the top buttons of his shirt and inhale my reward of cologne-laced warmth.

“Think of this as Christmas in July,” he nods at the ebony hills and their seaward diamond cascade, “and that’s our tree.”

“With a candy cane?”

“In your favorite flavor.”

“But what if I’ve been too naughty for presents?”

“Remind me again how naughty you’ve been?”

“Hmm. I did pull up my skirt in the car.” A kiss brushes one corner of his lips. “Then sat - most unladylike - with my legs anywhere but together.” A nibble at the other.

“So far, so good. Keep going.”

“How about melting all over your vintage leather seats? That should be worth a spanking or two.” The memory of squirming half-naked into the Mercedes’ supple, luxurious lap causes my mouth to tremble against his.

Another button slides free, but before I can slip my palms inside, he gathers me in for a long, dizzying kiss until our bodies quiver as one in the balmy Mediterranean breeze.

I nearly collapse like a newborn giraffe when we break apart, and he gallantly takes my hand.

“Continue to wonder, naughty girl, while we take the grand tour of my grandfather’s favorite lair.” I follow him to an alcove. “First, for my artistic almost-fiancee, the gallery.”

“Showing me your etchings, are you?”

“Who taught you that line?”

“Mrs. Lewis, 11th-grade history.”

“And you would ascribe such motives to me? I’m shocked. These are no etchings, as you’ll see.”

The flick of a switch illuminates five framed sketches at eye level. A closer inspection reveals the subjects are nude and sensually posed. The second from the left arrests my attention: a finely chiseled male, seated with his back half-turned, knees fanned to each side.

“Who drew these?” I drag my attention to the signature. “M. Lu-something...?”

Only the woman’s upturned eyes are visible above the delineation of his thigh. From the skyward tilt of his profile and his mouth’s beseeching gape, her purpose is clear. Approval throbs beneath my dress.

“Maksim Lucien. Someone your instructors never included in the curriculum.”

“Was he a local artist?” I manage to get through dry lips, distracted by the man’s blanched knuckles as he grips the bench, telegraphing throes of invisible pleasure.

“For a while, he was. Born in St. Petersburg, fled the Red Terror, and adopted a French surname. Then the Nazis confiscated most of his works at the height of his popularity. These drawings were from his years in Lausanne.

“And you have a good eye - Shura was his favorite muse. Lucien claimed he did his best work while she knelt under the easel and used what he called an ‘inspirational’ brush.”

“Yet he managed to keep his drawing hand steady. What a talented - oooh!” Robert’s fingers encroach the unguarded zone, and feather a path that breaks my words like glass. Then they’re gone. The air sighs in their place.