He's changed scents, downgrading his clothes but upgrading his perfume from Versace's Blue Jeans to Bleu de Chanel (EdP). He tells me he can't get us in to Milan Fashion Week but it's a cheap lie to keep us out of sight. "I always knew things would end this way" he sighs, "ever since...".
Maybe it's all in his head but
the way he plays this game until there are no other options sends
shivers down my spine and we're the slightly darker 21st century
versions of Bonnie and Clyde. He turns toward me in bed, runs his sharp
fingers through my tumbleweed hair. "Anyway" he says, "I want you to
see my mother".
So we drive north again and the pre-autumn
sunlight drifts across the hillsides and the mountains like fingertips
on naked skin. We stop for pastries and coffee at a run-down restaurant
just east of Lausanne and he makes me promise to re-read Anna Karenina
in time before the winter and the snow.