I remind myself that our love is better, softer, purer than others. Yes, our love's bed sheets are bright and white and clean and flat.
We share a cigarette, moving closer; inch by inch, drag by drag. Until his arm is around my waist, and he kisses me...
I fled England like a fugitive. Exiled, I flew south to a forgotten corner of France to tuck myself away in a world of orchards and stone cottages.