Our Summer

He was waiting for me. 
Reading on the terrace of the village café
Under the sycamore trees and their cooling shade.

A handsome presence.
Focused and refined,
As I remembered him.

I was standing across the plaza.
By the ancient stone fountain,
From which my grandfather would have drunk,
Its iron tap delivering 
The same steady flow of cold water from the surrounding hills.
The afternoon heat was intense,
So was the song of cicadas calling their mates. Relentlessly.
Summer was everywhere.

I had hurried to be on time for this rendez-vous.
He hadn't seen me, so
I dipped my hands in the fountain,
Refreshed my face and neck 
And tidied my hair.
Ready, I took a breath in
And walked towards him.

He looked up and, smiling, stood to greet me.
I ordered sparkling water with fresh lemon while he a dark beer.

“You are looking well,” he said.

“How long has it been since we last sat at this table?”

“Three summers,” I replied. “But it wasn’t as hot then.”

 “No, it wasn’t,” he said, “ And I remember how the tile floors and the shutters en cabanon* kept your house cool. It was the perfect writer’s retreat.”

“You wrote every morning, early before the mid-day sun made everyone sleepy.”

“Yes,” he said. “I remember my desk, the garden and the vineyards just beyond.”

I remembered, too—I remembered everything. 
Feeling tense, I lowered my gaze and relaxed my fingers.

 “And, you were the most generous hostess. How could I forget your hospitality?” he continued.

How formal yet familiar 
And within reach, he felt after a long absence. 
His warm accented voice was drawing me in—steady now, I told myself.

“Your book? Did you finish it?”

“It’s done; I wanted you to know.”

“Oh, you did?” I whispered.

His smile was tentative now, his gaze uncertain.
Did he wonder how welcome he was after three years of silence? 
Did I want to see him, hear about his novel, and his life in faraway Prague? 
Why had Pavel returned? 

“I have dedicated my book to you and to our summer.”

“Our summer?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Our walks in the hills, the delicious meals you laid out for me.”

Our summer is how I thought of it—our summer of desire. 
It started slowly, a playful flame at first, an unexpected longing.
It quickened, and we gave into the long summer days filled with routine tasks and intimacy. 
We found places to shelter, and by nightfall, we lay under the open sky in the cypress grove. 
How readily we took in the wonder.

We never talked about the future, 
And he left early in autumn, as I knew he would.

I felt his absence acutely. 
Sitting at his desk, dreamy and nostalgic, I missed his voice, his touch. 
He had taken my serene solitude away for a glorious summer,
And, over time, the familiar aloneness became bearable again.

But I was feeling troubled now, 
And I stood up abruptly. 

“I am sorry, but I have to go. Things to do, you know.”

“Of course, Bella,” he said, rising too.

“I am staying at the village inn for a few days. Perhaps you can make the time.”

He had said my name, Bella,
As only he did:
A lyrical song of praise, 
A melodious invitation.

“Perhaps I can.” I softened.

I regained my poise on the short walk home,
And when I reached the refreshing kitchen floor tiles, 
My heart was cautioning, 
All the while singing and leaping. 

Photo by Judith girard-marczak on Unsplash

*Popular expression in Provence, where the wooden shutters are partially closed to keep the
sun out. En cabanon translates as made to look like a little house.