The festival ended on the twenty-fifth.

Avignon should have recovered from its hangover by now.

My throat thickens. I try to put it out of my mind. But I am walking down this cobbled lane towards it, and the sweet smells from the patisserie turn my stomach. Like Aix, there is little that endears me to this place.

It is early August, and the rising heat is a punishment. A folded letter from the Diocese rests in my pocket. I arranged this months ago, before I had time to think, before I understood myself better.

The chapel porch is shaded and cool. I remove my wide-brimmed hat. A stone stoup is set into the wall. Childhood memories flood back, and I dip my fingers into the water without thinking. I look down in disgust and wipe them on my shorts.

The door is wide open. The muggy air hits like an unpalatable syrup with lingering notes of solvent and wet plaster. Stripped of all its ornamentation, scaffolding climbs the north wall like a ribcage.

The light is poor. It streams through the ornate glass, and streaks of dust meander with all the time in the world.

A crucifix over the altar confronts me. I do not linger on it.

“You’re in my light.” It echoes as harshly as it was said.

I try to sidestep my shadow, but cannot escape it.

The Diocese told me she was here.

A conservator.

I find her midway up the scaffold. A large hair clip tries to keep it off her face, but it has given up being tidy. Flanked by dark strands of hair, I admire her light, elegant features. She is slim, not petite, but shapely. I place her in her early thirties.

Gripping the rail, she looks at me properly. It is more than an acknowledgement that I exist. Her expression changes and lingers. I expect a smile to follow, and I offer a tentative one of my own.

“The Diocese said I could sketch the fresco.”

Instead of her beauty, I see a frown develop.

“Oh, it’s you. The Artist.” Her words drip with scorn.

I am affronted. It knocks me back. “Good morning to you as well.”

She tuts and goes back to the saint’s hand. “Stay off the scaffold. Don’t touch the wall.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. If you must use charcoal, don’t drop it on the floor.”

I will not give her the satisfaction of replying.

A little shaken, I set up in the shade. I sit on my stool and ready my sketchboard.

I examine the lost fresco, found behind a false wall.

The saint’s arm is raised with a hand of benediction. A fissure, not a crack, severs it from his body. Fresh plaster fills it, drying as a mottled scar. The two fingers are a flaky echo, compared to the ancient clarity of his robes and face. Clearly, her job is to repair it.

“Saints be praised,” I mutter under my breath.

She works and never looks back.

I might as well be a draft under the door.

-=- 45 -=-

The midday heat is a blanket wrapped around me. I sketch, but my eyes keep leaving the page.

At her workbench, her T-shirt is translucent where the sweat gathers. A black, practical sports bra presses behind its veil. She flexes to reach a substance in a red can. Her short gym leggings stretch at mid-flank, leaving the rest of her to the sticky heat.

I catch her side glance and pretend I did not see it.

She ascends the ladder, nimble and quick on her feet. Her legs are honed to climb. At the fresco, she stretches to reach higher. That T-shirt is my tormentor. It lifts, revealing her slender waist and pert ass.

At lunchtime, she hovers behind me. She looks at my sketch without asking.

“You made the crack pretty. It’s ugly.” She tuts. “Artists.”

I shift and turn to look directly at her. “Why the attitude? I’m only trying to be nice to you.”

“They all say that because they want something. You are here until Friday, so let’s keep it professional. Yes?”

My exasperation has its limits. I pack earlier than I need to. I need cleaner air, food, and petrol for the van. I glower at the pews, just like those in Paris. I married in white, and pretended to be pure. There, I was a credit to my husband in their eyes. At home, I was distraught.

They always wanted to know when we would have more children.

I trudge to the door and catch my foot, dragging it over the gritty tiles.

“Hey, Artist.” She calls out.

I sigh and turn around. “Yes?”

“I’m Maëlle.”

“Oh, you want my name now?”

“Don’t need it. I have the letter too... Elodie.”

“Fine.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I turn and raise my hand. “Yeah.”

The saint raises his hand, too. I ignore it.

The chapel can keep him.

In the porch, I glance at the stoup.

I want to spit in it.

-=- 46 -=-

Back at the campsite, my evening is a restless affair. Swigging from its bottle, the cheap wine does not placate me. Maëlle spooked my intuition. I know that look she gave me when I blocked her light. She posed for me, revealing her body. Her rollercoaster demeanour hides something, and she wants to see me tomorrow.

I am nobody’s fool. I am, if anything, predictable when it comes to my needs. It’s been weeks since I had sex. Such is the simplicity of freedom: I wake, I eat and drink, and I paint. I fuck, and I sleep. The question is where and when.

I hover between awake and sleep. I need to quell this heat inside me. My hand slides lower, finding I am wet just thinking about her.

In my mind, I do not wait for Maëlle’s kindness. She can tease. I take her mouth and purge her acid tongue with my own. I spin her to the nearest pew and put her hands on its rail. I pull her gym leggings down and hear her first gasp of want. For that, I swat her ass for her bad manners. Groping her sex, I make her plead as she wets, and wipe it on her inner thigh. Maëlle takes it from behind in front of that saint. My two-fingered benediction makes her sing a different song. When she is loud, at the brink of her revelation, I cover her mouth and watch her legs buckle.

I come to that image. Her breath hot against my palm, and the raised hand of the fresco doing nothing.

It is enough to let me drift away.

-=- 47 -=-

I woke early. In the sparsely attended shower block, I washed and preened myself. I chose a mid-blue cotton summer dress. It will let my body breathe. Knee-length, fitted, and worn without underwear. I left the top button undone and placed some perfume there.

Walking through the chapel porch, I want Maëlle to look so that I will have my answer. If she does not, I will put the letter on a crate and leave Avignon with pleasure.

I cannot hear her or see her. I hear a lament in the distance. It grows as I walk towards the vestry. Standing in the doorway, Maëlle weeps. She sits at the table with her head in her hands.

There are two coffee cups and a solitary croissant in its paper bag. I pause, and I see Manon. This is what might have happened in Collioure after I left.

Maëlle does not move when I take the seat next to her.

She stops weeping. “Have… have you come to gloat?”

“No.” I look at the extra cup. “When did she leave you?”

“Three weeks ago.” Her breathing shudders. “We would do this job. Enjoy the Festival. Spend the rest of the summer together.”

Maëlle looks up with pink-tinged eyes. “She said she was going to get lunch.”

She shudders with a fractured breath. “Instead, she just left. Me and that fucking fresco.”

“That’s three Hail Marys in this place.”

Maëlle snorts, trying to rouse her sense of humour. I place my hand on her shoulder, and she tries to calm her breathing.

“I was vile to you, yesterday. And unfair. You walked in alive and happy and beautiful. You do not understand ugly.”

“You never gave yourself a chance to find out. I was like you once. All piss and vinegar.”

She looks surprised by my admission. “Steinbeck.”

I nod. “Yes. English Literature, Nanterre, a long time ago.”

Those were my words on the rocks, showing Manon how I paint. I can feel tears welling up as I look at the extra cup. I will not cry in front of Maëlle. I do not deserve pity.

“I live,” I mutter, “but I am still learning to be alive.”

She frowns. “I don’t believe you.”

“I was in Collioure a few weeks ago with a woman called Manon.”

“You are not her reflection,” I add, “but I have an ugly guilt from what I did to her. I have been running away from how I feel for a very long time.”

She weighs up my words. “So we are both a prize catch.” Maëlle snorts, which is almost a laugh. “You are still beautiful.”

I pull her close. “So are you, and you have a vicious tongue. I understand why now.”

She manages a watery smile. “Sorry.”

“No harm done.”

“Elodie, I need to get out of here. I… I just can’t face it. Would you spend the day with me?”

I smile. “Sure.”

-=- 48 -=-

I waited for her in a nearby café. Maëlle wanted to change her clothes.

I see her from the other side of the road. Her skin shines, her hair is down, and it sways just over her shoulders. She wears an ivory dress with a floral print. Her appearance softens my wariness of her. She chose mascara rather than lipstick, and she sees me.

“I thought I would make an effort.” She smiles tentatively. “Like you have.”

“Thank you.” I take it as a compliment, not a fact. “You look good, too.”

Her eyes glisten with a warmth which does not curl her lips. “Phew, it feels good to get out of there.”

I smile. “So… I do not have a high opinion of Avignon. Would you help me change my mind?”

The plane trees on the Place de l’Horloge cast a deep shade. They offer a welcome respite as the old carousel ticks along in the square. Place Pie smells of wet wooden produce crates and the olives from Les Halles. The vertical garden on the market wall still drips from its last watering.

I thought this place was like Aix, because I arrived here alone and preoccupied. Walking with Maëlle, I can admit a smaller truth: Avignon is handsome with a weary kindness.

We seek a place for lunch with that same spirit, and Maëlle wants to eat here. It is shaded under taut canvas sails, with fans for cooler air. Immediately, I relax here. A wine bottle rests in an ice bucket, with two glasses to enjoy it.

We discuss small things of little consequence. Then, assisted by a crisp Lirac Blanc, the threads of our different perspectives weave together. She warms from an icy reticence. We order some Fougasse and Tapenade to accompany the wine.

Maëlle sighs, “When she left, I got a message the next day. She told me to move on. I don’t think she means it.”

“Have you tried to contact her?”

“Three times. No reply. Is this what happened in Collioure?”

I turn my glass by its stem, and nod thoughtfully. “I have not contacted her. I could have gone back. But, I know that I cannot give her what she deserved. I just wish I told her that. That moment has slipped away.”

I have to pause, and I shake my head. “Now, I worry that she thinks it was her fault.”

I do not smile this away, and I watch Maëlle finish her glass.

I take the bottle and top it up for her. “I’m sorry, but I think your ex is gone.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she sighs. “It will be a long time before I let someone get so close to me.”

“Then, I hope you can enjoy your own company.”

Maëlle pauses for a long moment. I know I have to continue.

“Years ago, I lost someone who I loved dearly, and I made a foolish promise to change my ways. I convinced myself I was being responsible and a grown up.”

I shake my head as she listens.

“I went back to Church, and met someone. I didn’t wait, because I was lonely. I thought I could hide my pain.”

“What happened?”

“I married him and made my vows to God. And my husband, for all his grace and piety, cheated on me while I was pregnant with my daughter.”

“Oh…”

I drink my wine. “And then the pretending at Church began, just so my daughter could grow up with two parents.”

“When I said you haven’t seen ugliness...”

“I have, Maëlle. And for years, I sat in a church and pretended everything was fine.”

She sits back and sighs. “I am in a chapel restoring that fresco pretending everything is fine.”

We leave it there, and share our food. She asks about my travels, and what I like to paint. The wine has softened our mood, and Maëlle steals the occasional glance at my lips. She does it again, and I catch her. I cannot help but smile, an invitation. Her head tilts, and we meet. She grazes her lips with mine.

It is a kiss beyond passion, with a tenderness for a ghost I barely know.

I look at her. “You shouldn’t kiss me like that. You’re on the rebound.”

Her eyes go down. “It’s all I know. I liked you since you stood in my light.”

“I adore the gesture, but I am not here to save you.”

“I know.” She fidgets awkwardly in the silence.

She looks up. “Elodie… It’s just… I’m lonely.”

I reach out and squeeze her hand. “Perhaps we can do something about that instead?”

-=- 49 -=-

Her spacious apartment is rendered in white. The shutters remain closed against the sun and the afternoon heat. There is order, as I might expect from her, with darkness in the corners.

A corner lamp casts light and long shadows over us. I see it in her eyes as a reflection. My hands slide around her waist, and our lips meet. We are tentative, but honest. Our second kiss misses the moment, and her nose bumps mine.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

I take her face in my hand. “Don’t be.”

We hold a long embrace, and then she looks briefly at me, as if she might change her mind. We try again, then again. I feel her confidence rising. Her lips meet my neck, and at the third attempt she finds the place that undoes me. I move to do the same, but she is not ready. Her lips find my collarbone instead, and she laughs after kissing it, and we try again.

I find the teardrop zipper on her dress, and ease it open. We tire of clothes, slowly removing them layer by layer, until we feel the warmth of skin against skin.

“I… I don’t usually take charge,” her gaze wavers from me.

I bring her face back to me. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Could I?”

I kiss her. “Sure.”

-=- 50 -=-

It inspires Maëlle, as our embrace tightens and our lips describe our hunger. The air is charged as she lies above me, placing her lips on mine. Her hand roams over my arm, finding my breast.

She tries to make me backpedal to the bed. I knock a chair, and she steadies me. I swear. She laughs.

The backs of my legs find the mattress. With a rattle of bedsprings, I lie where she puts me. I lift my arms, and they rest crooked above my head. The gesture is an invitation, and my hands stay there. The old habits rise. I want to steer her. I let it die in my idle wrists.

Maëlle stands over me. The lamp lays a rich golden hue over her. She is long in the body. Her curves flow as smoke rises. She looks at me the way she looked at the fresco, attentive and patient. She walks around the bed, taking in how open and available I am to her designs.

Her mouth curls, knowing, and my breath catches. She crawls on all fours and places her lips on mine again. Delicate fingers graze my wrist and slide unbroken to my elbow.

She watches my face and runs her fingers over my breast, catching its nipple.

“Be gentle.”

She stills. The back of her hand finds my cheek.

“I will.”

In just two words, I believe her, and she keeps her eyes on me. “I wanted you all day yesterday and every minute of today.”

Her lips open mine, and the taste of Lirac Blanc rests on her tongue.

“You are so beautiful,” she whispers with conviction, without a hint of scorn.

Her lips press from my neck, over my shoulder to between my breasts. Her touch is sure. She stays. When I catch my breath, she does not ask if it is good. The first kiss on the top of my breast makes me whimper. The flick of her tongue and its innuendo on its aroused peak makes me moan. Her teeth graze me once, her deliberate choice, and her eyes gauge mine while she does it.

Her hand slides up the inside of my legs, to the warmth of my inner thigh. I gasp as she spreads my wet heat. I let her see what she has done. She does not ask. She has already heard it in my breath. Then she is there, and my mouth opens.

She smiles. Small. Not as her discovery, but a confirmation.

This is Maëlle.

She takes her time with the other breast as if to prove the first was no accident. She feels my surrender as my hips shift without thinking. Something in her eases. Then, she takes more.

Her fingers enter me and correct themselves until I groan. She catches it with her lips, and her tongue delivers her conviction. I have to hold her so she does not slip away just yet. She murmurs contentedly as I capture her breast.

Maëlle kisses down the line of my ribs, over my stomach, along the fold between my body and my legs. When she puts her mouth on me, she slows only for a moment. Her full lips take me. She looks up, letting me see her need and does not stop. She finds the place that forces my long murmurings, and she slows when I rise too fast. I see her mischief and her playfulness. She acts not out of caution but to feed her appetite. She wants me to make those pleading sounds, and I cannot help myself. My hand goes into her hair.

Maëlle does not look up for instruction.

“Let me,” she mutters, not as a plea. There is no apology in it.

“Please.” I reply when her tongue offers a first taste of its fury.

When she becomes too fierce, I have to writhe. She wants my moans and I hurtle to the brink. Her lips arrive on mine, as her twisted fingers slide into me and her thumb presses. My arms hold her as Maëlle presses her kiss deeper. My body shakes. It crests. I come. Snorting for air, a sudden release of pressure flutters through my restless hips.

Light-headed, I drift, and her lips wait for me to return.

-=- 51 -=-

Maëlle takes my arms, one by one, and raises them over my head again. My chest heaves and our eyes meet. Her body towers over me, and she sees my eagerness to taste her. She kneels and gathers me by the back of my head. I am placed where she needs me. My tongue opens her. She flows, bitter and sweet, as my tongue swirls inside her. It flicks at that rigid point.

Unhurried, I explore her. She tries not to make a sound and fails. Her hands grip the bedstead. She looks down, her hair like curtains, swaying as her body shifts above me. I hold the weight of her breasts, my fingers rolling her hardened nipples.

When she wants more, she takes it. When she presses and shifts her hips, I give her what she needs.

I look up because she leans back and lets me. Her fingers return to me, circling and rewarding me. She takes my hand and slides my fingers into her mouth. My heat rises within me. There is nowhere for it to go but back into her.

A tear wells in her eye and does not fall. I see her mouth open, and her gaze softens. Her body tightens as the flick of my tongue delivers her there. Maëlle shakes, tighter and tighter. Then, she lets go with a cry she cannot contain. I offer more, and she lifts from me, still trembling.

Maëlle slides down without grace. The tear travelled as far as her cheek. I leave it.

She places her forehead on mine. “That was not dignified.”

I kiss her. “Good, because it was beautiful.”

She laughs between breaths. She lets me see her determination flicker through her eyes. Her fingers find me again. She watches me, smiling, enjoying what she sees. When I ascend too fast, she stills her hand and waits until I look at her. My arm holds her as Maëlle brings me to the point when I lurch and fall. I reach out and grip the bedstead railings.

I look at her, helpless and filled with tension, squirming for her. She will witness my orgasm. I whisper her name and plead for the rest.

She gives it to me. I rise quickly, and it hits me all at once. It peaks, and I tip over. It runs through my body and limbs, and I cannot keep quiet. I can feel her body on mine as I hold her while the spasms rush through me.

I glow in a vacant daze. We do not pull apart. Her thigh straddles my legs, and she places her heat on mine. For a long while, we remain there. I trace the small bones of her spine. She kisses me while I am trying to breathe.

“I won’t be vile to you again,” she whispers.

“I know.”

My fingers loop a lock of hair behind her ear. “Are you okay?”

She smiles. “Yes. Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I won’t. Do you think we might…” My fingers walk up her arm and rest on her breast.

I grind my heat against her thigh.

Maëlle grins, “Yes. Don’t stop.”

-=- 52 -=-

Showered and refreshed, we went out for dinner and escaped ourselves for a few hours. Of course, it felt like minutes. Walking back to her apartment, I needed to explain why I had to leave tomorrow. The chapel represented too many old memories. Maëlle asked me to stay the night, and I held her in my arms as we slept.

I woke to find her busying herself. In the morning light, I saw it. A T-shirt smaller than hers, untouched, and hanging in the wardrobe, alone. There was the awful truth. Sitting down, we drank coffee together. Maëlle said very little. She stared at my cup, and I knew who she was thinking of.

Under the wide-open sky, we walk to the chapel together. Slowly, she flourishes, sharing her plans with me once the fresco is finished. She counts down the days of the final two weeks.

Walking through the porch, I feel the weight of the vaulted ceilings. I let her see it now, and she embraces me.

“Honestly, I did not want to come here, Maëlle. I am very glad I did.”

“Thank you for helping me escape this place, just for a day.”

I look at the crucifix. “They took years off my life.”

“I understand,” she replies.

We break, and I reach into my bag. I find a business card and offer it to her. “In case you ever need a friend to talk to. Or, to let me know you’ve escaped this place… permanently.”

She hugs me again. “I will. Thank you.”

I look at the cracked saint. He could not save a soul, bricked up for centuries. Even now, he needs Maëlle more than she needs him.

And I do not need him at all.

I look at the stoup as I walk out. My fingers will remain forever dry.

Walking through Avignon, I take a few pictures and gather some supplies.

Later, in the van, I swig from a bottle of wine and toast Manon. I let my pen rest. My fingers are tired. These diary pages remained empty for weeks. Until now, it was impossible to write down my feelings.

I flick through it. There are pages for Collioure, Aix, Aigues-Mortes, Florac, and here.

I go back and read my words about Manon and myself. I told the truth, as ugly as it was. I can afford it, just one, and let it fall. A different ink stains the page.

I will leave here in the morning.