Two weeks remain of August and the summer, waking up next to him I'm so sure I smell fire that it can't just be a dream but it is. I reach for his hands in the smoldering daylight, his slumberous fingertips drawing outline pictures on my pale bare skin. He fucks me in slow motion while I count freckles on his back like charcoal stars in an inverted night sky, for a fraction of a second I forget about the time and space between us.
"I need to go to Berlin" he
says, "with Tom". I ask him why but he changes the subject, draws a
little heart on my cheek and calls me darling. Outside is salt-stained
winds and worried waves crashing in from the ocean, drowning out the
high-pitched sound of children's laughter.
I'll always treasure the way he looks at me when he knows that everything's already been said.