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en mai It was May in Paris, and they were happy. They were renting a few small rooms on the top floor of an old building that was a five-minute walk to the Seine. The rooms were comfortable, in the old, worn down way that certain rooms get, and there was a small balcony leading off of what Hunk grandly dubbed the dining room, but what was really the only room that wasn't the kitchen, bathroom or bedroom. The building was on a narrow, cobbled stone backstreet, the Rue de la Terre Verte, where everybody walked because no car could fit between the buildings. In the mornings they would eat breakfast on that balcony, Pidge sticking to the traditional coffee and croissant, Hunk eating eggs and bacon and toast. There was usually just enough sunlight peeking in through the buildings around them that they could sit comfortably in the golden glow until they felt like clearing away the dishes and starting their day. On Tuesdays, there was a farmers market a few streets over, and one day they went to it and bought fresh raspberries and ham and baguettes and a rotisserie chicken. They took their food down to the Seine and had a little picnic on a bench, watching the riverboats sail slowly by. Pidge put the raspberries on the tips of his fingers and Hunk took a picture before he plucked them off delicately with his teeth. Pidge had laughed and then kissed him, hungering for the sweet taste of Hunk and sunshine and raspberries. Some days they toured the different quarters. Some days they played tourist, wandering down the tree lined boulevards at the Luxembourg gardens, or gazing at fine art in the Louvre, or the view from the Eiffel Tower. Hunk knew just enough French to ask if they spoke English, and wonder about the whereabouts of the pencil of his uncle, but that didn't matter much. They were happy with each other and with the feeling of sunshine on their backs and moonlight on the Seine and trees filled with stars. On Sunday mornings, while they lay together naked and slick from sex, they could hear the bells of the old church calling people to mass. Hunk would listen for a moment, lost in the copper tones. Then Pidge would kiss him and caress him, and the bells would be forgotten in the arms of the younger man. Sometimes, when they were reading together on the balcony, or sitting in a Cafè, or holding hands while walking down the street, Hunk would put down his book, or look seriously into Pidge's eyes, or squeeze his lover's hand and say, "This is nice." And Pidge would laugh, or smile, or squeeze back, and say, "Yes. It is." And that would be enough for them. It was May in Paris, and they were in love. |