Don't they know it's the end of the world?

On our last evening he finds a private jazz club deep down in a cellar in Antibes. We drink red wine for a change, young men with thick beards and Wayfarer glasses keep turning their heads in our direction throughout the night. "They're all falling in love with you" he whispers and it sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.

We get back at dawn, bags already packed, just when the sun comes up behind the mountains in the east. Leaving always reminds me of childhood and my father's car on the driveway, our summer house sealed off like a crime scene until next year and the shadows from the tall trees around us.

He drives all the way to Paris, then picks me up and carries me in his arms up the stairs to his apartment. We wake up in the middle of the night with no ocean outside our window and his hair doesn't smell of salt and opium. This entire summer already feels like a distant dream, loose fragments of a memory, and it might just be that none of it ever really happened.