This raging heat strips the air of all mercy.

Inside this medieval citadel, the rough-hewn grey stone conveys menace. It shimmers in this perverse light. The walls are tall, punctuated by towers and their irregular symmetry.

Any shade that exists is found under café umbrellas, or as thin strips cast by the curtain walls. Tourists attack the ramparts and bridges as a relentless sticky horde. They photograph the same perfect corners. They queue for ice cream and cold drinks. Every workable surface is filled with the sound of other people’s days. A crowded light casts shadows over my work until their curiosity becomes unwelcome.

Built as a fortress and a harbour, over time, it silted up. This cruel fate gave the town its name.

Dead Waters - Aigues-Mortes.

I walk out through the Porte de la Gardette with my easel and paint box, under a wide straw hat. The moment I leave the last thin blade of shadow, I confront the heat. It is thick and mineral. It tastes of brine over this sun-scorched land. The salt marshes, the Salins, stretch out like a veil of candy-floss pink. Criss-crossed by white dykes, the sky has the hue of hammered tin. Fate provided riches beyond avarice centuries ago. Today, this famous salt is preferred by the world's best chefs.

A bead of sweat runs down my temple, and I stop to drink.

Out here, we are few. They move as stick figures rippling in the heat haze. Strong men, honed men work methodically, gathering the salt.

I walk further towards them.

The pink hue of the Salins transforms into many shades of rose, lilac, copper, and dried blood. The angular lines are aggressive. Squares and rectangles divide the Salins, each at a different stage of evaporation. The white salt crusts rise like the edges of scars. The light here forgives, unlike Collioure. But it is heavier and opaque as if the salt thickens the air.

Then, I see him.

-=- 29 -=-

He does not pose. My eyes undress him. He notices me with his shovel half-lifted, and a crust of salt sits on the wide blade. He holds my gaze for a few seconds too long, and it slides back into the water. Unperturbed, he repeats the task. He skims the layer of salt, glances at me, and puts it in the trough to drain.

I am lost in the line of his broad shoulders. I dwell on the strength in his biceps and forearms. At the base of his neck, a faint line of salt holds him to the water like a collar. He is younger than any man I have touched in years.

I choose a place for the easel that works with the light. I keep him at the edge of my vision. Setting the legs, I open my paint box and begin.

He pauses and stands easy with a handsome confidence. His skin is darkened by the sun, his hair cut short. He wears a white T-shirt, with khaki shorts and rubber boots. Walking from the pan, he takes a bottle from a cool box, beaded with condensation, and drinks from it.

The back of my neck prickles with sweat. My own bottle lies in the meagre shade under my easel. I have been careful with it. I work wet-in-wet and keep losing the edges. My glance constantly diverts to him. I scrape back the error without complaint. Manon would have thrown down her brush.

I miss her and her ways.

I cannot focus. That night with Marc and his wife remains with me. I took charge because I had to. The intensity of those memories fades by the day, and it has been weeks.

Moving the brush, I find the rhythm required to paint here. I ponder why I denied myself for so long. The debt to the truth piled up unpaid, and grew larger with every passing year. A dutiful wife spurned at five months pregnant, and cheated on. My decision to be grown up was taken out from underneath me.

So, I stooped to his level.

In Niozelles, Camargue, Collioure and Aix, I attempted to free myself. Be true to myself. I muse on them with a wistful smile while I move my brush. A quiet voice can be a confident voice. It tells me that my decision made years ago deserves ridicule, but nobody likes being a fool.

A shadow falls across the paper.

I look up.

He stands to my side. The silence between us feels awkward, and the heat burns away the appetite for small talk.

“You will need more than that.” He points at my nearly empty bottle.

His French is southern, with unhurried, lazy vowels. “The heat is deceptive here. You must drink.”

I take the bottle he offers and thank him. He does not react. I can only see his concern. The water is cooler than mine. Putting the bottle to my lips, I had no idea of my actual thirst. He watches over me, and takes no pleasure that he is right.

I gasp, refreshed, and look at him. “Thank you.”

He gestures to the Salins. “You paint them well. Most people make them prettier than they are.”

“They are not pretty. They are exact.”

He smiles. “Yes.”

“Do you live here?”

“No. I come for the harvest, and then I leave.”

“Where do you go after this?”

He shrugs. “Wherever work takes me.”

His answer is as brutally simple as my life, too. He has no story, and no future for my benefit. Romance and attachment require those.

“Would you like more water? They give us plenty.”

I nod, “Okay.”

Returning from his coolbox, he walks back towards me. My mind is quiet, and my body is deafening. I hone in on my instinct, animal and evolutionary. I reveal it, unafraid, and enjoy his beauty.

He stays while I paint. The lines blur perfectly, whilst my edges melt. Finally content with my picture, I close my paint box and stand. He watches me without comment, in the same way he might watch the weather or the turning of a tide.

We gaze at each other. It predates writing and speech. I do not blink. I do not move.

“There is shade further in, among the pines. It’s cooler.”

He looks at the line of trees.

He understands. “It’s my lunch break. You can show me.”

-=- 30 -=-

We walk. Salt crunches under our shoes, and gives way to baked earth and the first low pines.

The last of my careful habits shrivel under this severe sun. He is here, so am I. Today, there is virtue in honesty.

We are in the woods, the air changes, and the mineral heat softens. The shade is absolute in places, broken only by the burnished glare of the sky between branches. Cicadas work the silence with their continuous chatter. The clearing is small, hidden from the main path. Pine needles carpet the ground in a dry, fragrant mat. I halt and turn to face him. Removing my hat, I shake my long tresses free of it. I kept my face half-hidden under its wide brim.

I want him to see my expectations.

I step into him, and my palms rest on his T-shirt and the hard muscle beneath. He does not speak. His hands rest on my waist, heavy and certain, and the first caress of our mouths is tinged with salt and water. I open without hesitation, and it deepens into a dance of tongues. I press my body against his, and find the thick length of him hard underneath his khaki shorts. A snort of air rasps, and our mouths do not break. My own heat is fierce.

Tugging at the hem of his shirt, he lifts his arms, and the fabric peels away. It is impossible to ignore the full breadth of his chest and the white salt lines at the base of his neck. I kiss along his shoulder, unable to keep my hands off him. His skin is hot, dusted with fine hair that darkens in a line down his toned stomach. I run my fingers over him, enjoying a body shaped by the shovel and the sun. He watches me with patient eyes, letting me take what I need. When my fingers reach the waistband of his shorts, I do not pause. The button yields, the zip follows. My hand slides into his briefs. I feel its strength in my grasp. He exhales once and sharply.

Tilting my head, I gaze deep into his eyes. “Remove them.”

He pushes them down, and his erection springs free. I sink to my knees and admire it. Thick with an upward curve, heavy, and glistening at the tip. I wrap my fingers around it and lock my eyes onto his. The ground is warm, the pine needles are slightly abrasive. I kiss it first. He tastes of salt, skin, and bittersweet desire. I enjoy his first gasp as I work him with my tongue and lips. My hand strokes what I cannot take in my mouth.

His fingers thread through my hair, not forcing me, but holding. If he wants to fuck my mouth – he can. His gruff low sounds arrive when I hollow my cheeks. I will have that animal satisfaction. I keep my eyes open for him. The muscles of his abdomen flex, his involuntary hips join in. I match their cadence, and his grip of my hair tightens. Now, he fucks my mouth. He is everything I wanted, the exact fulfilment of my hunger.

No story. No tomorrow. No apology.

When I rise, he breathes hard. I look at it, and then into him. I unbutton my linen dress, and this is the last of my careful attention. It slips from my shoulders. My bra follows. The air touches my naked breasts, goading my tightened nipples. He lowers his head and takes one, circling my nipple with his tongue. His teeth graze it, revealing his experience. A bright spark crackles down my spine. His hand finds the other, and his thumb strokes it.

I take his hand and pull it between my legs. I do not wear panties when it is this hot. His fingers rub at my liquid folds. Two fingers press inside without resistance, and I gasp, baring my teeth into his shoulder. He curls them and works slowly. I lunge at his lips, pulling on his, pushing with my tongue. The heel of his hand grinds on my clit until my hips move of their own accord.

I croak and swallow to clear my throat.

“Here,” I manage, my voice rough.

I lie back onto the bed of needles, prickling my back as a small discomfort. They will sharpen the pleasure. He throws off his boots and settles between my legs, staring into my eyes. I reach out, taking him in hand. The blunt head slides along my wetness once, twice. My leg rests over his, and pressing on his thigh, I guide him in. He pushes.

My eyes widen at the fill of him, and they narrow as I yield. I feel it all, snug and hot inside. He sinks up to the hilt and holds it there, grinning at me. I clench around it as my retort.

My hands press and set the pace. The cicadas maintain their endless wall of sound. He moves with measured strokes at a tentative and gentle pace. I enjoy the unyielding strength of him. My hands roam over hard muscles, doing their work for me. Sweat is already gathering between his shoulder blades.

The pace builds, and the needles shift. His mouth finds mine again. Each thrust expands that cauldron heat inside me. My mind wants one thing. There is only the weight of him, the heat of him, and that relentless friction. My legs shift over his and my hands slide over his wet back.

He shifts, twisting my body, opening my thighs wider. His thrusts kiss that place deep within. I whimper with conviction, the sound swallowed by the trees. His hand slides between us, his fingers skid over the sensitive part of me. He chases it in time with his hips. It tightens everything. It rises quickly, pushing me to the brink with ease. I dig my nails into his back and let my climax take me as an elemental shock.

I shake and gasp beneath him. He does not stop. He fucks me through it, relentless, until the aftershocks have barely faded. I pitch up as a second, more intense pressure builds.

My desire intensifies without a single thought. I push at his chest. He rolls onto his back without protest, and I straddle him, guiding him back inside. Now, I control the depth and the rhythm, and he reaches the deepest parts of me. I sink down and rock my hips, grinding at its base. His hands massage my breast, and their thumbs overwhelm my control. Sweat runs along the valley of my spine and between my breasts. A drop falls from my temple onto his neck, dissolving the salt there.

I watch him closely. His parted lips gasp, and those impenetrable eyes remain fixed on me. I do not waver, watching how the pleasure tightens the muscles of his jaw. He is younger, stronger, and I see what I do to him. He is not burdened by a careful life made of lies.

Leaning forward, I brace my hands on either side of his head, and move faster. He does not answer. I give him time to adjust, as he did with the shovel. He tries again, and meets me at the peak and trough. My hair sways in time, as he captures my breasts again, and incites my worst. Now, our bodies clatter, loud enough to drown out the cicadas. The pleasure is too great to care about being heard.

My body stutters as the hot glow balloons. My fluidity ebbs as my eyes narrow. I will not close them as I shudder to a halt. He will see me for who I am. I let the tension out, and I cannot stop moving. He is trapped inside me, and with me in these woods.

Returning to an upright position, I brace myself on his chest and thigh. The sway of my hips returns, faster now, grinding to keep him deep inside. Stifling his thrusts, I circle and rock back and forth. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise them. He tries to drive up, and as his body falters, I watch this beautiful man swell inside me. Each groan is his pleasure and surrender. I enjoy its strength, jammed tight inside me.

My eyes stare. They are not kind. “Cum for me.”

He lurches, and I lift a little. I watch over him as he stabs it in deep and pulses inside. Smiling at how he is stricken with relief, I grasp him as tightly as I can. When he slumps, I stay astride him, grinning. I move slowly, enjoying the sudden loss of friction, until he softens.

Lifting myself free, I hover, and his seed runs from me. It falls onto him and slides down my inner thigh. I do not clean it away.

“Good?” I know it is rhetorical.

He nods, suddenly self-conscious perhaps, and then he reciprocates my smile.

I lie out beside him and cool in the shaded light. He turns his head to look at me. There is no softness in his gaze, no demand for an explanation. I smile at his quiet acceptance, grateful he made this as simple as possible. I reach out and rest my hand on his torso to feel the slowing pulse of his heartbeat.

-=- 31 -=-

Listening to the hum of nature, I cannot hear that careful voice inside me. The needles prick my back. His seed cools. I should rise, gather my clothes, and walk back to my easel. No, the truth is I want more.

I roll onto him. My mouth finds his again, and I kiss him harder this time. My teeth nibble on his lower lip. He tastes of salt and the clean sweat of fucking. I straddle his hips and reach between us, wrapping my fingers around him. I stroke him without patience, until he thickens in my hand. His eyes open wider. He starts to speak, and I silence him with a kiss. Holding him there, he is poised at my sex.

“Again,” I whisper. It is not a request.

It starts as a short, incredulous laugh, but he mutes it, uncertain of my response. It prompts a smile of my own, reacting to a young man struck by the absurdity of this. When he awoke this morning, he was convinced today would be the same as yesterday.

He can see my certainty. I can see his disbelief. Instead, he has something different for lunch.

I push down in one continuous motion. The stretch is immediate and complete. I do not wait for him to adjust. I brace my hands on his chest and begin to ride him, lifting almost until he leaves me, and then slamming down again. The wet sounds are loud, and we are not far from that path. A rustle of leaves might be someone approaching. I let the danger spice my movements.

Let them watch.

Pine needles shift and dig into my shins. I do not care. I reject the careful woman who weighs up desire with its consequences. I want her gone. I want her erased.

I am fucking this younger man.

Because I can.

He grips my hips, trying to slow me. I catch his wrists and pin them above his head, leaning over to use my full weight. I shake my head, grinning playfully. My breasts hang over his face. He lifts his head and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough that I punctuate my movement with a moan. The dual sensations accelerate my tempo. I grind my clit on him, chasing to smooth the sharp edges of my impending climax.

This might be temporary, but he will remember me as the stranger who fucked him in a forest.

The realisation breaks the last of my bonds. It rises fast, and I will not stall. I am a fury of skin slapping skin and unbridled cries. It peaks suddenly, and I reach the precipice and fall violently. I come as harsh convulsions, and I prise everything from me with determined hips. The aftershocks compel me to keep going. I move faster, the sound of my body as a hammerblow to his endurance. I want him to yield, and will not stop until he does.

He is stronger. He breaks my hold, sits up, and in one fluid motion, flips me over. He surprises me, and I purr with approval. My back rests on the needles again. He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder and drives into me with all his strength. How he fills me at this angle is merciless.

“More,” I demand. “Don’t hold back. Fuck me.”

The pace is brutal. The clearing fills with the slap of skin, my ragged breathing, the low sounds he makes when he buries himself to the hilt. Something deep gathers within, heavy and powerful. Old memories rouse, and vivid emotions pour from me. Deep cries drown out my place in this world. His hand over my mouth stifles it. The gesture is incendiary. My body clamps hard as I shudder wildly. I am flailing, lost in the intense spasms, clinging to him.

I am limp and glowing as he swells, and he shakes my body with his lunges. He drives in deep and groans. He twitches inside me faster than my heartbeat. He grunts, pushing deep, and I pull on him for every last drop.

Breathing hard, he slumps, and we stay together. His body is heavy and perfect against mine.

I do not ease him from me.

-=- 32 -=-

Now, there is quiet, except for the cicadas.

He rolls from me. I glance at him, and I see his vacant eyes staring at the tree canopy above us. I join him. I will not have to invent stories for what we have done. His seed will run from me. The salt will still be there. The light will still be heavy and opaque.

And I will be who I have chosen to be.

When we dress without hurry, I try to arrange my damp, messy hair. I hide it in my hat. We brush the pine needles from each other. I smack his perfect ass.

He buttons his shorts.

“Are you leaving soon?” he asks.

I enjoy his earnest expression. “Yes.”

He nods, as if that is the only answer that makes sense. “I’m Étienne.”

“Elodie.”

We walk back toward the Salins without speaking.

Back at my easel, he stops. “Well, I need to…”

“Of course.” I nod, sparing him the goodbye.

He smiles.

Then, he is gone. He walks with the purposeful stride of a man with more work to do. I watch him go for a moment.

The colours in the pans have shifted. The pink is deeper now, closer to the rose tints of old bricks. I sit and open the paint box again. My hands are steady. My body is quiet. I finish a painting.

It is my best effort of the day.

-=- 33 -=-

I carry my easel and bag back toward the campsite. I am thirsty. Étienne was right: I did not bring enough water. Today was temporary, the light, my thirst, my lover.

If only everything bad in my life was this way.

In late winter, that letter from the school in Nice rested open. I read it twice. The idea wounded me enough, and my ex-husband did not twist the knife. A place was available. He would pay the fees, and our daughter would live with him during the school term. I could have any of the holidays. Of course, I would visit in between.

Paris could not offer anything like this, and she deserved the opportunity to excel.

I sat at the kitchen table as a tear fell onto the letter. I had to be practical and stronger than I could imagine. With a hollowed-out heart, I chose her future. I agreed the same afternoon. A decision that required the truth and no lies.

When she left, I faced an apartment haunted by her presence. It was much quieter than I was ready for. I likened it to grief. It would not be temporary, and if she decided to return to Paris, it would not be for years.

It hurt, but these emotions did not accuse.

I sigh, and I am grateful for this small sign of acceptance. The heat softens, and the sunlight wanes as the first suggestion of twilight.

Back at the campsite, I need to wash the salt from everything, myself, and my clothes. I need to find somewhere to wash it off the van. First, I gather what I need for a long, cool shower. I will use the small bottles I stole from that hotel room in Aix.

Manon had courage, and I have found mine, too.

And I will rinse away these dead waters and leave in the morning.