His French actually sounds like French, he uses it demonstratively when we're around Americans and I answer him in Italian to annoy him. Judging by the way he silently kills me from under his vintage sunglasses it works.
The streets here are narrow and
the atmosphere dense, I wear semi-transparent cream white dresses over
shell pink cotton underwear from Cavalli. I feel freer when I do, as if
nothing matters outside the flows of cool air that sometimes cut through
the tender fabrics like butcher's knives. Henry acts unimpressed but
fails to convince me, he lives for the way strange men with H&M
girlfriends turn their heads to look at me.
At night in bed he's
asleep holding me, his hand on my hip bone, I turn towards him and it
comes to rest like a butterfly softly between my legs. He doesn't wake
up and I don't make him.