“Let’s hear it.”
“Did you know, Cockburn, that the Bay of Nice was named after a miracle that happened in the third century? There was a young Christian woman who was arrested for her faith in Palestine, just across the Mediterranean. Her torturers did everything they could to convert her faith, but she stood her ground.”
“Tough lady.” I felt my thighs quivering against his head uncontrollably, my limbs turning into jelly. Oh, God. So close.
“She reminds me of a little storm I know. When her torturers realized that she wouldn’t cave, they beheaded her. As was the custom after such an execution, her body was put on a raft and sent across the sea.”
“Assholes.” I threw the covers off of his body, my fingers twisting in his hair. I rode his face with my eyes shut, feeling my mouth watering with pleasure.
“They, too, remind me of some people we know. Logic dictates that her body should’ve been desecrated by seagulls. Logic dictates that her beautiful head wouldn’t have made it past Greece before it would have rotted under the sun. But logic doesn’t live where there’s love. The myth is, angels took over her raft and guided it across the Mediterranean all the way to the Bay of Nice. Her body arrived pristine and untouched. A miracle, stronger than the circumstances and the sea.”
I came hard against his lips. My angel wanted to take me to the French Riviera. I wasn’t going to argue. I’d follow him to the stairs of heaven or the pits of hell. Doesn’t matter where we go, I’ll always enjoy the ride.
“The young woman became a martyr, Saint Reparata, the patron of saint of the Cathedral in old Nice,” he said as his face rose up from below to meet mine, his lips glistening with my passion for him. I placed a soft kiss against the hot flesh of his neck.
“What happened to the angels?” My voice was hoarse with sleep.
“They named the bay after them,” he whispered. “But the angels aren’t the point. They didn’t give two shits about the glory. All they ever wanted was to see the girl through her journey and give her peace.”
“I love you so much.” I clasped his face, noting that the space where my missing finger once was, was starting to heal. I survived the world’s greatest torture under the arms of powerful men, but it was this broke guy from Stockton who managed to snatch my heart and soul, and I know that he is the only person who can ever break me.
I also know that he never would.
“My martyr, my storm, my passion. . .” He kissed every inch of my face. “My Cockburn,” he finished on a rumbling laugh.
I hugged him, his cheek against mine as I inhaled his unique scent.
“No, seriously. My cock f*cking burns. I need to shoot a load. Spread your legs, Country Club.”
I smile at my neighbor from across the hallway. We live in an antique building on Rue Segurane, close enough to everything we care about. The gardens, shops, restaurants and promenade. Chris and I take long walks every evening and drink our coffee every morning on our balcony overlooking the jade Mediterranean Sea.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Cockburn.” Auralie, my old, friendly neighbor doesn’t even bother locking her door after she closes it silently, so as not to wake up the young students who party all night down the hall. I smile back and nod, bending down to pet her old Yorkshire terrier. Despite her friendliness, Auralie, like the rest of my neighbors, refuses to communicate in English. Not because she doesn’t speak it. She’s knows it fluently, I suspect. It’s a matter of principle.
“?a va?” her sweet voice enquires. She always speaks extra slowly for Chris and me. We’re still learning, and if I may add—we’re terrible students so far.
“Jamais mieux.” My lips smack. Never better. Never.
I skip down the stairs like a giddy four-year-old on Christmas morning, sticking my earbuds in, La Valse D’Amelie providing a soundtrack to this beautiful summer day.
All my favorites. Recreated, with him.
My gift waits for me one block from where we live, and I can’t wait to unwrap whatever it is that he’s wearing. Holding my long, yellow summer dress just above my ankles so I won’t trip over it, I charge to one of the places I call home nowadays.
Throwing the door to the coffee shop open, I thunder into our place. We called it Le Journal Rouge. The Red Diary. We bought it because it looked like crap, but inside, was a soul in the form of a library with hundreds and hundreds of books. In English, French and Spanish. In Hebrew, Mandarin and Arabic. Tourists come here and tuck their favorite books into our shelves like it’s the Western Wall, their wish is to immortalize their love for their favorite novels. Here, we share beautiful words and heartbreaking art.
Customers love sitting here between 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. when everything else is closed for the afternoon rest. They drink our terrible coffee and read our wonderful books.
My boyfriend lifts his eyes from the coffee machine and bangs the filter holder into the trash. He wipes the steam wand clean with a dishcloth then throws it over his shoulder. Leaning forward, his elbows resting on the counter, he takes my hands in his. People look at him weirdly here in Nice. He stands out even more, with his size and sinister tattoos. He doesn’t care. He never did.
“What can I get you?” My palms disappear inside his and he brings them to his lips, planting kisses all over my knuckles, halting a few more seconds on the one without a finger.