Summer Impressions to Better Embrace Fall

The sky seen from above, through the airplane window. We’re flying through the clouds, soaring over houses, fields, and seas, as tiny as in a children’s game. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.

The cicadas chirping in the heat of the day. The song of the crickets setting the rhythm of the balmy night.

Your hand absentmindedly caressing my hips on the beach, surreptitiously moving up toward my groin. I want more, of course.

The sound of the waves, unceasing, as I doze off on the sand. My thoughts, unceasing, rolling to the rhythm of those waves, carry me in spirals wherever my subconscious takes me.

Drinking a glass of champagne at sunset. Sometimes, clichés really do have their charm.

Feeling your hands on the nape of my neck and my shoulders relaxing instantly at your touch.

Reading for hours on end, forgetting the passing of time, the noise of the world, immersing myself in the words, in the story of characters who become as alive as those people sitting on the other side of the pool, as familiar as dear friends.

Sleeping with the windows open. Feeling the air gradually grow cooler. Snuggling up against you in the middle of the night because, in my dreams, I suddenly shiver.

Not wanting to part ways and extending our time together by twenty-four hours, because, after all, why not?

I show you around Paris, where I was born and where I grew up. We cross the Seine. We walk through the gardens. We linger on the terraces of the bistros. Every corner of this beloved city is brimming with memories. You smile when I recount this or that anecdote. You follow me through the alleyways, the passageways, the labyrinths. You know exactly what I’m wearing under my skirt. It’s made of silk and somewhat intricate, with skillfully placed cutouts.

The landscape flashes by through the train window. In just a few minutes, we go from a forest to a field, to a village, to a city. It feels like we’re looking at a movie screen. The world turned into a poem.

The intensity of the vibration deep between my thighs. The train is packed. We act as if nothing happened. You shift into high gear. I bite my lip then burst out laughing because it’s such an overused image and yet it was so spontaneous, so sincere. It’s crazy how we unintentionally recreate the most clichéd images, I tell you, before suddenly falling silent, my eyes narrowed with pleasure. I can hardly think, I’m gasping, it feels so good, I can hardly think.

Staying on the deserted beach until nightfall. Little by little, people get dressed and leave, the shouts fade away, the temperature and the light dim. As for us, nothing is forcing us to leave, and we savor this stolen moment, this in-between, this fold in time.

The taste of tomatoes. Suddenly I remember that this is what tomatoes taste like, both sweet and tart, with a texture that’s both melt-in-your-mouth and crunchy, and a subtle scent that I’d struggle to conjure in winter but which is suddenly so obvious, so vivid. I have to remember it, on my taste buds; it’s one of the most important things not to forget at the end of summer.

The incomparable flavor of strawberries, blueberries, and sugar-laden blackberries. The taste of watermelon. The velvety texture of apricots. And whipped cream, too.

Feeling a drop of sweat roll down my back. The coolness of an ice cube on the tip of my tongue. The coarse grains of sand sinking into my toes.

Trying on the new swimsuit you just gave me. Feeling the fabric, with its new-clothing scent, against my skin, then watching the droplets of water bead on its surface.

Stepping out of the shower, slipping into the dress and lingerie you picked out for the evening. Wearing barely any makeup, just a touch of that perfume from months ago, our perfume, that’ll be enough.

Eating a four-cheese pizza in the midst of a heat wave. Going back for more mayonnaise with the seafood. Savoring those delicious wines on a terrace overlooking the city, the sommelier explaining his selections like an actor, the birds circling high up in the cloudless sky.

Your fingers touching me discreetly in the water. We have to keep a straight face. We mustn’t get caught by those serious adults swimming or sunbathing.

Watching the sun eclipse, seeing it with our own eyes. The world tilting. Primordial magic. Our huge smiles, like children’s, all evening long.

Hiking up that trail with you, my heart beating to the rhythm of the effort, the temperature rising subtly, the trees gradually parting to let in more and more light, and suddenly we emerge onto a summit and the sudden immensity takes our breath away. We’ve left the woods behind for the sky. We’re overlooking the world.

Paris is sweltering in early August. The asphalt is scorching. The cafés and shops are closed. I walk with delight through the stifling heat, down streets emptied of their inhabitants. That strange feeling of moving through a science-fiction movie. That curious sensation of freedom, of rediscovered space, of “anything is possible,” and of being in between. We’ll have to wait for the week stretching from Christmas to New Year’s Day to rediscover that Paris.

Making love on a balcony, in the water, in the woods, on the backseat of a car. In a bed with fresh, soft sheets against our skin. On the couch, on the floor, on the flat roof of the apartment you rented.

The joy of traveling. In my eyes, airports are among the most inhospitable places in the world, and yet I love walking down that hallway far too early in the morning, my eyes still heavy with sleep, my limbs numb, rolling that bulky suitcase along, knowing that all of this will lead me toward the unknown and, inevitably, joy.

Watching the sun rise through the window, once again. Feeling as though I’m at the heart of the universe’s mysteries.

Discovering a city I’ve never visited before. Reality replacing fantasy without losing any of its splendor.

Even though we’ve just arrived, we’re already making new plans together. Deciding on other destinations, restaurants, hotels, long train rides, wild flights, and erotic interludes.

Being inevitably turned on during long car rides. Wanting you to touch me, but you’re driving and I’m afraid of accidents. Despite that, I spread my thighs and show you that, once again, I’m not wearing any panties. It’s summer, after all. You have to know how to live dangerously.

Watching the sun rise over the sea. No play, no ballet, no opera, no matter how sumptuous, can rival such a spectacle. So that’s what we artists strive to do, to try to capture the pure beauty of the world around us, as long as we still exist.

Oh yes, there is something that can rival such a miracle: watching the sun set over the sea.

Go to an island narrow enough that you can see the sun rise in the east and set in the west. Make it a habit and never miss a sunrise or a sunset. And at noon, sous le soleil exactement.

Walk together through the museum galleries. We lose each other, find each other again in front of a painting, lose each other again, then find each other once more. Then we have coffee outside, filled with all this magnificence. We wonder if we should stop by the hotel before going to the restaurant. We stop by the hotel.

The balcony overlooking the river. The sun’s reflections on the water, changing from hour to hour, we could spend our whole lives gazing at them, you tell me, and I agree with you so much that I want you all over again. Your soul and the universe seem to excite me endlessly.

The days are so long, and yet time flies by so quickly, I think to myself, pressing close to you, I don’t want to go home, I don’t want to go home, ever.

I’m going home. I have to go home. And so do you. September is winking at us.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten the world is burning, metaphorically and literally, but since there’s not much I can do about it right now, and since neither my sadness nor my anger will help at present, I’m resolutely choosing to cling to the beautiful and the small, and, armed with my joy and with all my strength, to help prevent future disasters.