He acted like what he was: one of the most handsome and wealthiest bankers of the city.
Nightly candlelight parties in his villa whose balconies opened toward the ocean. Château Mouton Rothschild Pauillac: deep reds and an unmistakable taste of eucalyptus. Coquilles Saint-Jacques, escargots, Provencal fish stew whose aroma imbibed the corridors from lazy late afternoons until early mornings when it was replaced by that of coffee and freshly baked croissants.
It was an act. He looked like a man who while sleeping with one woman thought of another. Teeth planted in warm lips in an eerie absentness of mind; nothing less than automatism. His entire being was consumed by something else, something as imperative as the birth of a child: the naked vision of a woman whom he could not have.
excerpt from my manuscript Remembrance of Love (working title)
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)