I've been at the airport before but nothing about it brings back memories. Maybe it was the airline alcohol. Henry tells me to look for the 98 bus just outside the terminal, I'm guessing it's his childish idea of a joke.
The cab I hail smells of
oriental spices and sweat, the driver holds a brusque twenty minute
monologue about the Egyptian situation but my mind is elsewhere. A
polluted sunset embeds the mountains outside, the Mediterranean washes
over me like a feverish mirage along the Promenade des Anglais.
wavelength later I'm in the hotel lobby waiting for him, furtively
taking pictures of misplaced tourists with their Zara shopping bags. The
staff refers to him as Monsieur, I know how much he loves that.
When he comes down he's dressed in ebony black from Dior and a fittingly
subtle tan. He kisses me on the cheek and calls me Madame as if we were married.