It splutters, and then surges back to life.

Moments later, the van decides the hill climb is no longer worth the effort.

I disagree. “Come on!”

The engine coughs and falls silent.

“Shit.”

Coasting to a stop, I pull the handbrake. I turn the key. It will not start. The hot engine ticks as it cools.

It is mid-afternoon, hot, and this is the middle of nowhere. I sigh. It is a modest sound for my panic. Crying feels dramatic, and the landscape is doing enough of that already.

I place the red triangle some distance from the van to warn other drivers. The air smells of wild thyme and soil. Summer comes early here, unless the mistral decides to play.

Under the shade of a tree, I look for a local garage and call it. It is a short, perfunctory exchange, and he will be here in an hour.

This is the Luberon, a region of Provence, a place of striking natural beauty. Ask Picasso; he lived here. I am amongst the mountains that ease into the hills and into the valley below. It sprawls out below me into terraces of vivid colour.

As always, my sketchbook and coloured pencils provide a distraction from my worries. I focus on a cluster of cypress trees, and a farmhouse nestled in them. I draw with fine and heavy dashes of colour to prompt my memory when I return to Paris.

If… I return to Paris.

Each time I hear a car, my hope is disappointed.

This time, a dark-blue Citroën stops. He climbs out. He is taller than me, broad across the shoulders, and carries the sun-darkened look of someone who works outside. In oil-smeared work trousers and a blue shirt soft at the collar, he is in his mid-twenties. He looks first at my small camper van and then at me, silent and unassuming.

“Elodie?” he asks.

I smile, relieved. “Yes.”

“I’m Julien.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“So the engine just stopped?”

“Yeah. It lost power, then it surged, and then it cut out.”

“The garage is two kilometres down the hill. I can look now, or I can tow you.”

“Could you look now?” I ask.

“Are you in a hurry to be somewhere?”

I shake my head. “No. Just worried.”

“You’re the customer.” He looks amused. “I haven’t seen an Acadiane for a while either. But they are easy to fix.”

I find that reassuring. “Thanks.”

He fetches a toolbox and sets to work without further conversation. I return to my sketch, but my pencil only moves for a minute.

The sun catches the tousled brown of his hair. He glances up and finds me watching. He does not smile, but the corners of his mouth ease. Returning to his work, he speaks without looking.

“You’re not from here?”

“No, I’m from Paris.”

“So, just passing through?”

I admire what I see. “I was heading to a campsite near Niozelles.”

“I know of it, our garage is not far from there.”

“Our garage?”

“My father owns it, it’s a family business.”

A ratchet sound zips along, and then stops. He peers in and smiles. Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he looks up.

“The fuel filter is blocked. It happens with these. It won’t take long.”

“I have time,” I reply.

His hazel eyes reveal little. His lips remain on the edge of a smile he cannot be bothered to curl. There is nothing in his expression that asks who I am. Or, why a woman who is almost forty is alone living in an old camper van. He is not interested in why she sketches at the roadside. He carries on with his work.

Rolling over to a fresh page, my pencil finds his broad shoulders and the way he holds himself. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled unevenly, and the fabric strains across his upper arms. His back is broad from work rather than the gym. Those trousers fit well on his hips and pull tight when he bends. It rouses an unfamiliar smile.

It will never be a portrait. I draw what I dare to imagine, and an intense warmth blooms within me. It has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.

When he closes the bonnet, he straightens and leans back to loosen himself up. I stand and walk over.

“So, you want to try it?” His smile does not fade this time.

“Sure.” I grin back, enjoying the ambiguity of his words.

I get in and turn the key. The engine starts rough, and I jab the accelerator. It coughs again, but settles into a steady rhythm.

“Thank you!”

He enjoys my genuine relief.

“It should get you to the campsite. But…” he states that word firmly. “It needs a service. The fuel tank and lines need to be flushed properly, or it will happen again. I can do it tomorrow if you want.”

He waits.

“Tomorrow?” I frown. “Sunday?”

“First thing, nine o’clock.”

“Okay.”

He gives me directions, which I repeat back.

I pay him for his time. He does not check the amount and folds the money into a pocket. He climbs back into his Citroën, and the dust rises behind him as a pale plume.

-=- 2 -=-

I pass the turn to the garage. The van behaves itself better now than most of the men I have known. Certainly the man I bought it from, who told me it was in good running order. So, a handsome young mechanic saved me. I did not plan for that this morning, setting off for Niozelles.

At the campsite, I paid for a single night and park up.

Watching my clothes wash, spin and tumble, I read a book.

I eat, and my appetite lacks its former zeal.

I sleep, lightly as usual, and my recurring dream visits me. I live a life, two sizes too small, and everything is an absurdity. I have no choice and repeat the same mistakes over and over again. It is so convincing that when I wake, I do not know where I am.

It is easy to forget; I am not that woman anymore. Someone made a choice for me.

The shower block is a neat row of individual cubicles in a modern, wooden building. On the road, I have a gravity bag. It is not warm tiles, soft lights, and plenty of hot water. I warm it in the sun, and I have to be quick.

I push the nearest available door. It is already warm from earlier use. Naked, I stand under it longer than necessary. The strong jets work the road dust from my skin and pummel at the tension in my shoulders.

I dry myself. The dress I have chosen is better than the dishcloth I wore yesterday.  Leaving the cubicle, I almost bump into someone. She holds my arm. Our eyes meet, and hers light up.

A subtle frisson of attraction trembles through me. “Apologies.”

She smiles, and it lingers. “It’s okay.”

She is the same age as Julien, and that spark crackles again.

I have learned to ignore it.

I use the vanity area of the bathroom, something I never do. I dry my hair quickly and comb it through.

Stepping out into the crisp air, I pause to enjoy the pale green of new oak leaves and the early morning birdsong.

I will be late and must leave for the garage.

-=- 3 -=-

Situated in a cobblestone courtyard, Julien is waiting for me. It is swept clean, surrounded by small terraced homes. There is a large plane tree at its centre. He explains these are holiday lets and occupied. Not to disturb any late-risers, he pushes the van into the workshop as if it weighs nothing.

A nearby boulangerie provides coffee, croissants and something for my lunch. I give him the coffee he requested. Under the dappled shade, I sit and paint a small vignette in watercolour and pencil. The neat little houses inspire me. Each is a different pastel shade, with gleaming windows and clay-tiled roofs.

Church bells call the faithful. I will not be going.

I look up and find him standing at the workshop doors. He does not look away, and neither do I. After a moment, he returns to my van, and I return to my painting. It is there; I feel it. It is not a clap of thunder or an arrow from a bow.

At midday, he brings me a glass of icy water to accompany my jambon-beurre for lunch.

“So you paint every day?” he asks.

“Most days,” I reply.

He nods at the drying watercolour. “You are good.”

Julien goes back inside and does not wait for my thanks.

Shortly afterwards, the bonnet closes with a soft thud, and he comes out into the light.

“Okay, it’s done. Everything is as it should be. She’s in good condition… for her age.”

I indulge him in its double meaning, and he can be bothered to smile now. I pay what I owe. Again he folds the notes without checking, and slips them into his pocket.

“If you want to paint, there’s a path over there that leads up to a wonderful view. I can show you.”

It is not quite an invitation. His tone suggests it as a fact.

I take it as both.

-=- 4 -=-

We walk up between two dry-stone walls, thick with rosemary and wild fennel. The air grows lighter and cooler. At the top, it opens out to the whole valley beneath us.

I gasp at its beauty.

We stand there in silence, letting our breathing calm. In the distance, the mountains catch the refracted light as a deep blue. There is a faint scent from the last of the cherry blossom flanking us.

He turns to face me. “Are you in a hurry to be somewhere?”

I gaze into his eyes and see a constant expression, gentle and unembarrassed.

“No.”

“Good.”

I know what to expect, and I glance at his lips, giving him permission. He kisses me in the way that he works: unhurried, careful, and with his complete attention. When my mouth opens to his, he reciprocates. I take the initiative, and our tongues meet. He makes a muted, gruff sound. When his hand slides into my long hair, the other rests at my slender waist.

I step into his embrace, pressing my body against his. I let myself fall into each kiss; it has been so long since I felt like this.

“We can…” he hesitates. “Go back to mine. I live above the garage.”

I grin and shake my head.

Screened by a stone wall, I can feel its heat, and cushioned by the cool, soothing grass. Unbuttoning his shirt, he does not object. I kiss the skin it reveals, one button at a time. The fabric holds the faint warmth of his body, the clean scent of soap and smudges of engine oil. I seize his ass, firm and muscular.

I submit to my body’s calling. “Take these off.”

I watch him remove them, and he moves without haste or self-consciousness. In my eyes, I hope he sees how I burn. His muscles shift underneath his skin. There is a faint pale line where a shirt usually sits. We roll, joined at the lips. My fingers run through the dark trail of hair that runs down his stomach and thickens at his groin. Delicate fingertips trace the stout lines of his arousal.

I smile when he flinches. Looking at him, even in the certainty of what will happen, he does not expect it.

Kneeling, I lift my dress over my head and unhook my brassiere. The thin, dry air caresses my bare skin. He sits up. His tender caress traces the line of my collarbone, moves along my arm, and along the outer curve of my breast.

My gaze does not waver, and he chooses to look into my eyes.

He caresses my face. “You’re beautiful.”

I shake my head and look away. “Once upon a time, perhaps.”

He holds my chin and brings me back. “You are now.”

I smile, not from amusement, but from the honesty of it. No one has said that to me in a long time. Now, there is passion flowing through our lips and fingertips. We cavort, each of us trying to assert our needs. His lips on mine provoke my hands to explore him. I clasp his bicep and enjoy its heft. I pull his hair and bring his mouth to my ear.

The words come out before I have decided on them.

“Eat me first, and then fuck me.”

My voice catches, halted by my sudden candour. His eyes lift to mine, brooding and unsurprised. For a second I almost take it back. Then his eager mouth finds mine, and I enjoy the overwhelming response. The thought is gone.

I am on my back again. His lips begin at my neck, supple and enticing. They move lower to my breasts, and he lingers on their sensitive skin. I bring him to their nipples, pressing my arousal against his thigh. I push on his shoulder, and his lips descend, marking me. They rest just above the elastic of my panties. I lift my hips, and ease the fabric down. His hand completes the act, and the breeze does not cool me.

On this bed of grass, bathed in a golden light, I throw my hands over my head. They rest crooked, and I want him to see my desire. I will not shy from his gaze.

His first touch reveals his experience, kissing the inside of my thigh, then the other. Each time, they rise a little higher, teasing my hunger. When his mouth finally settles on me, I gasp. The first unguarded rush of need slides through me. For a moment I am startled by how instantly I respond. I open to his patient tongue. The heat of the stone wall is nothing to what rises through me.

My hands find his hair, and I do not need to lead him.  He watches me, and I show him how it feels. I unravel into long, easy sighs. I seize, and now, my tight fingers keep him there. The flicking rasp of his tongue has me. My other hand grips a handful of grass. Tilting my head back, I float in haze amongst the cloudless blue sky. It seems to hold its breath as I do.

I arch, and my thighs tremble. It unwinds from me with a throaty groan. His arms keep me grounded. Julien stays with me until the last tremor leaves my body. I am breathless and a little dizzy. He moves up and places his lips onto mine. I chase after their slow patience as he shares how I taste. For a moment the woman in the shower returns, then fades.

Each kiss is more unbridled than the last. Pressing a hand to his chest, I roll him onto his back. I kiss my way across the solid bulk of his chest, and follow the dark line of hair to his loins. I reach it. I free him from his underwear. Looping my hair behind an ear, I grin, although a flicker of nerves runs through me. Already hard, I take him in hand. He is solid, warm, and ready.

I make a wish that he will not forget me easily. My eyes meet his, and I take him into my mouth. Vibrant and rigid, I gauge his stamina and endurance, listening to how his breathing changes. I hold it, still watching, swirling my tongue around its head. I find that half-forgotten natural harmony, conjuring his moans. His eyes lose clarity and focus, becoming soft and dreamy. When I feel him tighten, I ease back, and then taunt him for the same again. He moves and shifts. His groans join the delicate birdsong. Caressing his tight, generous balls, I am not ready for him to finish yet. He will know when I am.

I move up, bracketing his hips, unashamed of my body. For a moment I look down upon him, resting his fierce erection flat against my sex. I see a younger man who asks nothing of my history. We will make a new one together. Sliding against him, I know my body pleads for him. I will not deny it any longer.

I rise, lopsided on one knee. My eyes burn into his, and I watch his dip to witness my impalement. Pressing it against me, I sink slowly. One, two, three careful attempts take his girth. I groan at the last, welcoming an old familiarity. I push down until it rests hot inside me.

Braced against his chest, I begin to move. A thin wind crosses my bare back, carrying the sweet air of the valley. The earth is warm under my knees. I watch his expression change as I take him deeper. Old emotions shift and rise to the surface. I embrace them, and the passion surges through me. I roll my hips, rediscovering my old addiction. I know exactly how to draw it from him. I bear down and tighten, witnessing how he groans.

“Oh God,” he murmurs. “Like that.”

I do it again and let the pace build. His hands press firmly into my skin. He is everywhere inside me. My hair falls forward, casting him into shadow. I tighten, and I can see he feels it, too. I lift a little, and my cries rise under the open sky.

“Take me,” I plead.

Now, my words have a potent fluency. He leans up and holds me. I am feeble to his strength. The thrill is too much. Placing me on my back, I yield to him, free and young again.

“Fuck me,” I beg.

My hands pull on him and scour his back. Julien matches the tempo I crave, and we clash as seasoned lovers. My hips move instinctively, seeking that perfect angle. Squeezing tighter, my cries find their strength, and my body starts to shake. The tension rises from the deep, and he unravels what I have kept hidden for far too long.

I meet his eyes and hold them. For those long seconds, there is nothing else. It gathers and tightens, then gathers again. I fall silent amongst nature. When my climax rushes forward, it is not gentle; it is a potent, shuddering release, and I let it all out. Wings clatter from a treetop, and I am with them. I cry loudly, long and unguarded, and then slump as he bucks harder.

“Cum for me.” That is all I can manage.

I try to chase his thrusts, perfect and deep, again and again, still spasming against him. I wrap my arms around him. We kiss with feverish lips, tongues sliding as he thickens. I try to respond, hugging his body with my limbs. He capitulates with deep thrusts and all his strength. His groans of surrender rumble through me. He pulses deep. I press, and ease, and press tight, again and again.

I want it all.

I caress his hair as we take uneven breaths, still joined. I smile, and kiss the crook of his neck. A faint mistral breeze freshens our bodies. With my head on his chest, I rest with him, enjoying how his heartbeat calms. He smells of sun and exertion with the faint metallic trace of the garage.

We are silent amongst the rustling of new leaves in the trees. I close my eyes to enjoy him with the tranquillity of nature around us.

-=- 5 -=-

Later, we walk back down the path.

At the van, he hesitates. “You could stay the night… if you want a proper bed.”

For a moment, the idea of a comfortable mattress and having him alongside me appeals. I am drawn into the possibilities of more sex before we sleep, and in the morning. I feel the pull of it.

I almost say yes.

That word, it feels like safety, and I spent the last fourteen years agreeing to things. I know it means something else. Cupping his face, I feel the faint stubble against my fingers, and smile. I hope he sees how I appreciate his thoughtfulness.

“Another time.” I reply.

He nods, as if he expected that answer. “The van will run better now. But if it gives you any trouble…”

“I know where to find you.”

He smiles, the one he threatened to show me yesterday.

I bring him into my arms, and place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

More than he will ever know.

Stepping into the van, I turn the key, and it starts first time. He bangs the top of the cab as a final goodbye, and I drive away.

-=- 6 -=-

I park in a lay-by overlooking the valley. Sitting with the back doors open, I nurse a glass of Luberon Rouge. I finish the bread and charcuterie, picking at the last of the salad and olives. The night air is soft against my face. The encroaching darkest blues herald the night and more stars awaken to shine. Wisps of cloud mute the silvery light of a half moon. Somewhere a dog barks and falls silent.

Julien looked at me without any expectation or claim to my body. He rouses a contented smile. I am desirable to a younger man. We did what was needed in the moment.

That sense of freedom stays like the wine on my palate. No one expects me to come home. There is no need to be at the school on time, or to have an evening meal ready at a certain hour. The silence feels enormous, and I used to fill it with other people’s needs. I cannot walk to the windows of my apartment, open them wide, and let the city pour in.

Instead, I let the quiet fill me.

Finishing my drink, I climb into the van, pulling the doors closed and locking them. Closing the curtains, I shut out my old life. This new life used to daunt me. Tonight, it feels possible.

Warm and comfortable, my eyes are heavy. The scent of grass and Julien remain on my skin. I carry the physical memory of him inside me - the first after my divorce.

I sleep deeply, and for once, I do not dream about compromise.