No one makes plans in Aix-en-Provence at the height of summer.

This syrupy heat lingers, creating an indifference in its people. The Cours Mirabeau is swollen with tourists who mill around and dawdle. They have nowhere urgent to be.

Aix is a city smeared as an arc at the foothills of Provence. Twilight lingers at its longest now, casting a reddish hue on the limestone buildings. The silhouette of Mont Sainte-Victoire bears down on the dignity of its boulevards. Strings of soft, yellowy bulbs hang between the plane trees, adding their illumination to the pink sky. Distant, yet unmistakable, an accordionist plays La Vie en Rose. I shudder.

My folios must be lightened, and I have a stall at the night market. A little extra money is always welcome. Parked behind our stalls, I am next to a lavender seller and close to a fountain. The scented cooler air is a welcome reprieve from the odour of grilled meats and melted cheese.

On a midnight blue baize, a dozen small watercolours rest. A small stone weighs them down in case the wind forgets its manners. I wish it would. These pictures are my whimsical curiosities; they will not make me rich, but they give me the most satisfaction. For a little money, anyone can take one home. They tell a story of this artist’s idiosyncrasies. Matisse had Fauvism. I have Manonism.

She occupies my random daydreams. I am ashamed for not explaining my departure, and that has cooled my curiosity. I worry that I hurt her feelings. For weeks, I put distance between Collioure and myself. I painted and kept to myself. My careful habits are back, but they grind against what I want. Manon’s sense of adventure itches under my skin. My awakened body has needs, and it counts the days relentlessly.

Business is brisk, and the good-natured passers-by ease my mood. Only six pictures remain. Even if these do not sell, this evening has been worthwhile. I can leave Aix for cleaner air and a different light.

A man stops in front of the table. He is in his mid-thirties. His dark hair is cut short. He wears an open linen shirt and an expensive sandalwood scent. Watching him, he is aloof and distant.

“This one.” He points to a picture of a bistro table in early evening light.

I name the price. He pays without bargaining. He angles it toward the light, studying it for flaws only he would notice.

“You have a good eye.” He looks up, without smiling. “Most people paint the light. You paint that, and the details that few notice.”

I thank him, but he does not leave.

“I’m Marc,” he offers. “Can I buy you a drink? There is a place around the corner that still serves proper pastis at this hour.”

I look at him properly. His air of detachment is not natural. I see glimmers of a raffish confidence, my biggest weakness. He has too many laughter lines for a life without meaning. His eyes are more alive than he thinks. Finally, he lets out a guarded smile. It is not Manon’s but smaller.

I take a little longer to reply than I should. “Okay.”

He does not smile, and there is one unspoken question.

It is mine to answer.

I gather the remaining watercolours, slide them into my folio, and lock it in the van.

“Good luck,” the lavender seller offers, with a half-curled smile.

I return a similar grin.

-=- 23 -=-

The heat sits lower in these side streets, trapped by tall buildings. The wise use them to make progress. His silent shoes walk slowly on the cobblestones. He offers the usual small talk, the market every year, and the unseasonal weather. I answer only to keep the conversation moving. I am wary, and yet curious. My body has already decided its reply.

The bar is half-empty. This is the kind of establishment which does not advertise, and every city has them. Its low-lit alcoves guarantee discretion. He stands at the zinc counter worn smooth by decades of elbows while I sit and wait. He orders, and our drinks arrive.

He sips at his. “You are not from here.”

“Neither are half the people on the Cours tonight.”

He grins. “True. But your van has Paris plates. You’re passing through.”

“I am.”

“And you prefer it that way?”

“I do. For reasons.”

I let him talk about the city. He has one month to go before he leaves for the coast, and for the whole of August. That is enough to place his kind. He leaves spaces in the conversation, and waits to see if I fill them with frivolity. I do not. The silences lengthen, and I will not take the bait. I am not bored, but this performance begins to feel tiresome. It is obvious. He is married. Aix can keep its careful professionals and their well-guarded nights.

Being true to myself sounds simple. This is not.

I finish my pastis and reach for my bag.

“Well, thanks for the drink. I need to get back to the van.”

He watches me with the same measured look he gave the watercolour.

He does not move to stop me. “You act like someone who has done this before.”

I pause, half-risen, holding my bag. “Sold paintings?”

“Taken a drink from a man you do not know. You’ve already decided how far you might go.”

I settle back onto the seat. “And that… is a woman’s prerogative.”

Finally, his mask slips, revealing something of himself.

I lean in a fraction. “And you have the look of someone who has offered this drink before. Does it work?”

He accepts my remark without offence. “Most women either misconstrue it as romance, or go cold when they understand why. You are doing neither.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is an observation.”

He weighs down a folded bank note on the table, and stands. His offer is implicit, and I am still free to refuse it.

-=- 24 -=-

We leave the bar, and the streets are darker under a moonless sky. The air cools, but the stonework radiates heat instead. Fewer people are wandering by. The sound of a fountain peters out among these high walls.

He stops under a lit doorway. “My wife knows I am out.”

There is no drama in his statement. There is no apology.

“I kind of guessed.”

He looks at me, dispassionately. “She knows what I do. On certain nights she likes to watch.”

An old fantasy awakens, and an intense arousal responds to it. I gaze back at him, struggling to maintain my neutral expression.

“Are you shocked?” he asks.

“No. You’ve suddenly become interesting.”

I invented versions of this when my marriage was more frigid than cold. After an illicit tryst in a hotel, I would come home and make a small, ambiguous remark at the dinner table. I revelled in the danger that my husband might understand it. I sat there eating when my panties were damp with another man’s seed. I wanted him to know who I really was, and how I erased myself for him.

I wanted him to watch me fucking.

Now, he makes a similar offer without the lies.

“Are you still deciding?” His tone is quiet, yet confident.

“I am.”

Even aroused like this, I remain wary of their world. They are libertines and so was I - once. It explains Marc’s reticence. I understand the need to remain professionally respectable, whilst sating those needs. I will not judge.

I played the adultery game in Saint-Germain on my own, with a mountain of lies for company. In Opéra, with Martin, we ventured to a libertine club when the need arose. They had a sense of style. We dressed for the occasion, and enjoyed good food before dessert. That was something sweet on scarlet sheets, wearing filigree masks.

I remember the peace of knowing exactly who I was.

Being true to myself.

“Where are we doing this, Marc?”

My question widens his eyes. “A hotel close by. She will be there, if I send a message.”

“Send the message,” I whisper.

He takes out his phone, types a short line, and puts it away.

“So... “ I grin at him, “what do you want from me?”

This is not romance. This is not kindness. It does not need a deception or an excuse, only a reason. Mine is different to his, but it is good enough.

There is no further discussion.

We walk.

-=- 25 -=-

The hotel is small, boutique, and the kind of place that trusts its patrons with real keys. The wood-panelled reception smells of clean citrus and fresh flowers. The lift is small, with a lattice-cage door. Walking to the room, our steps are silent on a plush crimson carpet.

He knocks twice, and the door handle clicks. Marc looks at me, and I gesture. He can walk in first. From the third-floor window, the distant sound of a fountain persists. His wife sits there in the corner, as indifferent as I am. She holds a tumbler of Armagnac, with a clear view of the bed.

Marc closes the door. The click is quiet.

She is younger than him, but not by much, and at the peak of womanhood. Her haircut is expensive, with chestnut tresses falling around high cheekbones. Her skin is fair, the colour of fresh cream. She wears a full set of black silk-and-lace lingerie. It exists for decoration. It works. She has a slender, beautifully proportioned figure. I cannot help but stare at her.

Reclined in her chair, arms on its rests, her poise keeps her thighs open. The lace is slightly sheer, revealing the cleft of her smooth sex. I hold her gaze until her breathing hitches. She glances once at her husband, then returns her attention to me. The slight heave of her breasts is her only betrayal.

My blood runs hot, my arousal runs hotter. I give thanks to my inspiration from Collioure, and I mimic Manon’s unembarrassed smile. Yet I cannot lose this apprehension of their world - my metallic anxiety. It is sharp, tainting my natural poise. Old emotions rise like ghosts. They invoke the memories I tried so hard to forget.

I look at Marc and gesture at her glass. “Pour me one of those, please.”

Taking its generous measure, I sip at its spiced fire. “Now, unzip me.”

His slow hands are delicate; they are more intimate than kindness itself. My veiled eyes make their request, and he removes my underwear. Naked, I turn to face her, glass in hand. The cooler air does not make me shiver. My pulse is too loud in my ears. I fight the need to tremble with nerves by parading my naked body around the bed. I turn and approach her.

I toast her in my attempt at bravado. She shifts in her chair and joins me, taking a longer sip of Armagnac. She licks it once from her lips. Her eyes drop to my mouth for a moment, then rise again.

Marc does not rush. He stands in front of me and sinks to his knees. He does not order me to keep my eyes on her. That is my decision. His tongue parts my folds. She can see my reaction; she is watching. As his tongue learns where it needs to be, I keep my eyes on her. My anxiety does not ease. It waits to see what I will do next.

I drain the glass and set it on the sideboard. My fingers lace through his hair. I need to steady myself and guide him. My hips answer when he finds a rhythm. My first moan escapes me, weighing my eyes, forcing me to pout. She looks at my lips again, then she touches her own with a finger. I nod slowly at her wordless plea. I reach out and beckon her. The space between us narrows; her exhaled breath is warm and fast.

Our lips caress as an act of mercy for both of us. I rest my thigh on his shoulder and drape my leg over his back. The position opens me further. I can feel how deliberately he is using his tongue, broad and flat, animating me. He is watching us. I reach out to her, using her for support. Our eyes do not waver as the quaking begins. My imagination from those lonely nights is here. Nothing prepared me for the reality.

I am at the cusp, and it calls to me. I rub my essence across his mouth and chin. Still looking at her, I hide that apprehension that binds my climax. It will not happen like this. The respectable wife of Saint-Germain will not let me.

“Stand up, Marc.” My voice is weaker than I want it to be. “Let me show your wife what she should be doing to you now.”

He rises. I take to my knees. The carpet is soft under them. I take him in my hand first, then in my mouth. He is hard, curved, and muscular under velvet skin. I work him slowly, keeping my eyes on her. His wife loosens, her breathing shallows with a faint rash across her chest. She watches my mouth on him and then glances at my lips when I pull back. I circle the head with my tongue, then take him deeper, measuring the weight and the heat of him. When I release him, it is fully swollen and shining.

I stand and look at her, while I stroke him. “Do you want to watch me take it?”

She nods once.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes.” The word is small and timid.

“Then strip. I want to see you.”

She looks to Marc. He gives the smallest gesture of permission. She removes the lingerie piece by piece. The black silk falls to the floor. She is a shapely treasure from her broad shoulders and the wide arcs of her breasts, to her slender waist and hips that match. Between her legs she is already glistening. I let my gaze travel the length of her without hurry. Whatever doubt she might have had about my interest, I erase it.

She starts to return to the chair.

“No. Come here.”

His wife steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. I reach behind and take him in hand, keeping him rigid. I clasp her wrist and place her hand on my hip. She shows initiative and slides it up against my breast. Her fingers are cool at first, and they warm. She does not grip. It rests there, obedient and tender. The contact steadies my emotions and heightens everything else. Her eyes keep returning to my mouth, and I smile, enjoying her arousal.

“Fuck me like this, Marc.”

He lifts my hands, and I clasp them behind his head. The posture arches my back, presenting my ass to his loins. He does not tease, and presses into me in one slow, continuous movement. I am filled with his generous girth. I do not control how I moan. His wife is so close. Her hand stays on my body, supporting me until he is fully inside, thick, and rigid. I let her see whatever is on my face.

We begin to move. Her free hand drifts between her legs. I do not stop her, and when she melts, I know what she needs, written on her flushed face. Her hands rest on my breast, her fingers scissor an aching nipple. Her fingers slide through my hair, hoping to meet her lips.

What little nervousness remains sharpens my pleasure. I let the moment hang between us, enjoying how she aches while her husband moves inside me.

“I want it on the bed. From behind.”

He does not argue. He turns me and puts me on all fours at the edge of the mattress. My thighs open. My spine curves. His wife watches with her fingers stirring her sex. The lazy seconds are as long as my eyes resting on hers.

I am back in Paris for a moment, on satin sheets, but the memory fades when he pushes back inside me. Now, I groan, welcoming how he enters me firmly. Marc reveals himself, varying the depth and rolling his hips. I dissolve at his nascent mastery of my body. She stands, watching, pushing two fingers into her wet folds.

“Kneel there in front of me.”

His wife obeys. With one hand at a time, I rest them on her shoulders. She steadies me while her husband starts to fuck me. Her palm is warm now, resting on the side of my face. She does not speak. She maintains contact, supporting my weight. With her other hand, she continues to touch herself, the rhythm matching his.

“Harder,” I tell him, instinctively.

He responds to my fading caution. His hand gathers my hair. I play along, showing his wife what this feels like. She tilts her head, as if she wants to memorise the moment. She looks at my mouth again, wanting me to mark her. The pressure builds. I push back more vigorously than he expects. He answers with his manly strength. I teeter at the brink, and I stall again. My mind resists what I crave.

Her hand slides over my breast, brushing my erect nipple. Her constant gaze remains. Her fingers creep over my abdomen, skirting my mound. I groan as they make contact. She presses and circles in time with her husband, helping without taking over.

Unable to hold on, I throw myself into her arms, hugging her neck. My hips are not my own, and his fingers sink into my flesh, keeping me where I need to be.

My fear has nowhere left to hide. I let it go.

The orgasm is not polite. It is not aloof. It shakes through my arms, my body, and into my thighs. I cry out hard. Marc does not stop. He rides the aftershocks, still buried in me, while her fingers coax the last spasms from me.

I stay on my knees a little longer, breathing, feeling him hard inside me. Then I ease forward, and order him onto his back. The residual heat of my climax glows through my body. Flushed with perspiration, I offer my hand, and bring his wife to kneel on the bed beside us.

Bracketing his hips, I reach back and slide him into me. He is deep. I keep one hand on his chest for balance and the other on his wife’s shoulder. Still touching herself, her gaze moves between my face and where her husband disappears into me.

Watching him closely, I set the pace. His wife fingers herself with those same precise movements. Her gaze keeps dropping to my lips. I reach out and tilt my head. Our lips press, her mouth opens, and our unapologetic passion intensifies. His wife makes a muted sound of her own.

I am the truth. I am a libertine, and the name fits perfectly. I am in that club in Opéra, with Martin, the masks, and the scarlet sheets. I am here in this hotel room, stripped of its theatre and spectacle. I have a woman on my lips, and a man inside me.

My old memories surge through me. This deliberate rhythm smears my hips, taking him to the hilt. I writhe back and forth. He thickens. I stay with him and roll my hips faster. His wife looks to me avidly, as if she can read my mind. I do not smile. I want her to see the moment as Marc struggles.

“Come for me.”

His wife gasps; I stifle it with my lips on hers.

He grips my restless thighs, and pulses deep. Flashing my eyes at her, I jerk my hips, squeezing on him. I do not halt until he is still.

When I lift from him, the evidence is immediate. It falls from me, and streaks my inner thighs. I turn to his wife. Her features soften as she shakes until her body tightens. Her eyes are glassy and soft. Her mouth opens, and I pull her to my lips, pressing my tongue into it. Her climax is sharp and mumbled.

Flushed and panting, I admire her. She returns my gaze, and I do not need to ask.

I lie back on the bed, my knees bent and thighs open. Her placid eyes say everything when I beckon her. She leans down, refusing to break eye contact, and cleans me with her mouth. Slowly and thoroughly, she takes what her husband put there. When she lifts her head, I reach out, clasp her by the back of her neck and bring her mouth to mine.

Her lips are soft. She does not push as we feed, sharing the taste of him and me between us.

I release her, wink with a smile, and hop off the bed.

Walking to the bathroom, I leave the door open.

-=- 26 -=-

Tiled in pale stone, it is an opulence I took for granted. Running the shower, I step in and take my time. Now, I can afford myself the beaming smile they cannot see. I glow under the warm raindrops, inside and out.

The steam rises and the mirror clouds. There are small bottles of shampoo and body wash on a glass shelf.  Hotels provide them so you can feel a little wealthier than you are. I am grateful. I open one, smell it, and use it. I push the shower door ajar, and toss the rest of them into my open bag. They will not miss them. They will not remember my name by morning.

Drying myself with the largest towel, I dress. Hearing their moans, I let my smile linger, listening to their passions build.

On the bed, Marc is above his wife with her leg hooked over his hip. His indifference is gone. They move with a familiarity for each other, inspired by tonight and how they love each other.

The wife turns her head and finds me. Her distant eyes gaze out at mine. She does not look away as that crisis builds inside her. She arches, her limbs tighten. I watch her hand pulling at the sheet. I smile at the rushing sounds of her release. Marc follows moments later, buried in the crook of her neck, unaware and unconcerned that I am in the room.

I have intruded enough, and I will not let envy cloud this strange happiness.

I leave without a goodbye.

The door closes with a gentle click, and I am gone.

-=- 27 -=-

Outside, the air remains heavy and humid. I walk through the quieter streets toward the van. The sound of the fountains guides me back to Cours Mirabeau. I can see the mortar in the stonework and the way the streetlight bends in the old glass. I walk with a light weariness, and yet, I have fresh eyes.

The realisation sinks in. I can be a libertine again, if I want.

Last March, when that inheritance letter arrived, even with its formal language, it lifted my laconic mood. After months of despondency, and that impossible time alone, there was hope. The money did not make me rich. It was a down payment on my independence. At the time, it was only a word to me, a lost feeling, replaced by a frightening space. The blank canvases in the van included the person in the driving seat.

For years, I made up lies so I could experience intimacy, and I paid a price for every last one. I knew, deep down, being a libertine was more honest. Tonight, without planning to, I stepped back into that world.

I am back at the Cours, and the people have melted away. Some of the stallholders are loading their vans. The Lavender seller looks at me and grins. I return it without thinking.

As I open the van door, there is one true thing about this evening.

Myself.

I afford myself a small smile as an old flame burns inside me. I will never be so foolish as to extinguish it again. I will keep reminding myself who I am.

I start the van and give thanks to Manon.

Now, I can make plans, and my first is to leave Aix.