This place is as picturesque as it is cruel to any artist.

The unpredictable sunlight offers no place to hide. She will dry out colours quicker than the tears of your frustration. The sea does not forgive. It requires the use of blue, and not green, confounding artists for centuries. The fort glitters with a latent black violence. The church dome in pink rose is in every picture I remember of my favourite artist. It looks tired, old and defiant. It embodies who I am, and how I feel.

Below are the boats, in red, cobalt, and white, our Tricolore. They bob on their moorings, eager to be somewhere else. I pause as I do every day, mesmerised by their dancing reflections on the troublesome water.

All the colours climb to exalt the cloudless sky. The houses are stacked tall, the narrow streets force the body to lean and brush past others. Then the quayside opens out, and Collioure exhales from its claustrophobic lanes.

Matisse found his magical palette here, and conquered the impossible light. Derain, I am not so sure. I know my limits, and choose watercolour as my medium. Oils are impractical, and already at this early hour, I can feel the beads of sweat on my neck. This is a place for loose linens, and a retreat into the shade at noon. The Catalan tradition bleeds from the border here, and I siesta from the blazing rays.

Painting for an hour, the infamous light has left me behind. I accept the challenge and try again.

Then, she appears, walking up towards me.

Her blockbook is under an arm, with her sun-bleached blonde hair pulled back, messy and cute. She wears a rock band t-shirt. It is three sizes too big, and faded by how much she loves their music. Underneath that, her denim shorts peek through. She is young, and this light favours youth. She is flawless and beautiful.

She peers into my work.

“You’re working wet-in-wet.” Her French has a slight Catalan inflexion.

“Yes.”

“But, the blues change faster here.”

“I know.”

She watches in silence.

“You are letting the edges bleed. You are not meant to.”

“I can because I learned how,” I reply. “Are you a student?”

“Yes, I’m at Perpignan. Fine Art, final year.”

“Nanterre, English Literature, a long time ago.”

She sniggers. “Nothing compares to the light in Collioure.”

“Uh huh.”

She gasps at my brushstroke. “How? What!”

I turn to face her, smiling, and gesture to a space close by. “I can teach you that, if you like?”

She nods, and looks at me directly. “I’m Manon.”

“Elodie.”

Her eyes smile with her lips, and she sits on a lower rock. We work in mutual silence.

I watch her between washes. She is restless even when seated. One foot taps out a regular rhythm against the stone. Then, she is unshakeable when the brush moves. She mixes colour with a contradictory style, controlled at first, and then impatient. When a passage of brush strokes disappoint her, she scrapes it back and begins again with a tighter jaw.

“Use aquamarine first,” I offer. “Add more water. Then you can keep up with the light by using paint or water where you need it.”

She peers up at me. “Thanks.”

When the shadowless light becomes as difficult as the heat, I close my paint box.

She looks over at me. “I have a bottle of Banyuls. Would you like to share it with me?”

It is barely lunchtime, and I dare to look her in the eyes. They are bright and vivacious.

I grin back.

“Just like Matisse, huh?”

“Yes!”

-=- 15 -=-

We sit with our backs against a warm stone wall, higher up the path. Drinking under the dappled shade from a tree, the wine is sweet and heavy. We swig it from the bottle like the rascal artists of old.

A young man walks by with a sketchbook under his arm.

Manon gestures at him. “Most stay for a day, and then leave, happy with the same colours as everyone else.”

She points the bottle toward the harbour. “Always there, the worst place in the village. They never wait for the shadows to return.”

“And you?”

“I wait. Even when it’s wrong.” She takes a swig and gasps. “Especially when it’s wrong.”

I am impressed. “That’s how true art is created.”

Manon passes the bottle. Our fingers touch for a second longer than necessary. She does not look away. I watch her eyes widen and quickly settle.

“Are you an actual artist?” she asks.

I nod thoughtfully. “I make a small living from it. I used to work in an office. It almost killed my soul. And you?”

“Oh, I do this to relax. I’ll get my degree, and then I don’t know.” She pauses. “But… I have ideas.”

I look at her again, and she beams. I admire her sense of mischief. She is young with a world of possibilities and its many avenues to explore.

Right now, I am lost in a maze.

“Well, if you have lots of ideas, I’d love to hear them. Would you like to get something to eat?”

The Banyuls said that.

“Sure.”

We eat grilled sardines with a large tomato salad at a small table. We have iced water and a very chilled Grenache Blanc. I do not usually drink this much, this early. The bistro is little more than a kitchen and a scattering of tables and chairs under large plane trees. It is popular, and I enjoy the thrum of lively conversation. We float along, chatting happily. Manon talks about university, and a particularly fastidious professor. I find myself laughing with her before I decide to.

When the plates are cleared, she leans back. Her gaze has a charming naïveté, and I dare to guess her next words.

“I have an apartment, it’s nothing much. But it’s higher up and catches the breeze. The window looks out over the harbour. We could drink coffee and wait for the light to improve?”

I dared to guess my answer. “Okay.”

She grins back.

We walk up the sandstone steps. Somewhere a radio plays an old Charles Aznavour song, and it carries on the still air. Walking on the cobbles, the thrum of tourists fades. A gull cries overhead until there is silence. The yellow stonework endures, along with the faded paint on doors and windows.

We could be at any moment in time.

-=- 16 -=-

We are high above the harbour. There is a bed for two with old, mismatched chairs, and a painted table. It is chipped at the edges, revealing a kaleidoscope of colours. In the corner, on a simple clothes rack hangs a solitary t-shirt. The rest of her clothes are on the floor. A kitchenette and bathroom complete her apartment.

Manon closes the door and turns to face me. We are hot from the walk, glowing with perspiration. From the open window, the cool breeze soothes. Again, I see her unembarrassed smile, and my excitement flutters inside me.

Slowly, I approach. Her eyes are brimmed with expectation, and she glances at my lips. I know I must be gentle. My tender hand captures her waist through her T-shirt. My head tilts, and I pause to let her back out. The distance narrows, and I place it on her lips. Not tentative, not too firm, and I feel her melt into my arms. Our embrace deepens, her mouth opens, and her arms slide around my shoulders.

After her first whimper, she breaks. “I’m really hot? Are you?”

I nod slowly.

Her t-shirt is gone, revealing her naked breasts. She loses her shorts, and does not wear panties. Now, I see her mischief, smiling at me, unashamed.

Any clothes are a crime on her sublime body. She is slender in the way only a twenty-year-old can be. Lithe-limbed, her curves and features are unfinished at their edges. Her shoulders expose her elegant collarbone, lightly freckled from the sun. Her breasts are broad, and their nipples are a hard, flawless pink. She has ribs that show in faint lines when she draws breath. It is her narrow waist and beguiling hips that captivate me. They flare gently with a long continuous line that swoops over lean muscles. On her mons, its neat patch of blonde hair is a faint midday shadow.

My linens are cast off, along with my underwear. I let her look, resisting the instinct to limit my exposure. Her eyes appraise me, breaking her smile to reveal her bright white teeth.

Manon glides towards me with a sensual gait. She smells of sun and mineral salts.

From her slender hands, a long caress slides over my shoulders, down my back, and settles at my waist. I kiss the crook of her neck, the soft place beneath her ear, and I can feel her breathing shallow. She leads me down onto the bed, and the single cotton sheet rests cool against my back. She lies over me, our curves slotted together, and her weight is a welcome pressure. Our lips meet again and again, languid with feeling. My hands travel the length of her spine, the curve of her hip, the back of her thigh. She makes a low whimper when I pull her closer.

“Tell me what you like,” she says against my mouth.

“I’ll show you.”

I guide her hand between my legs. She does not blink, watching my expression change as her fingers explore. She learns by the smallest changes in my breathing. When she finds the right pressure, I reveal myself. I will not hide.

Manon takes her time. She strokes, adjusts, and listens with her whole body. When I begin to tighten, she does not speed up. She stays with a relentless constant rhythm until my climax peaks. Breathless like the wisps of cool air, I climax with my eyes open, watching her, making a soft moaning sound that I do not suppress. I can see a flicker of triumph in her eyes that moves me intensely. I am not her first, but I am hers for now, and I ache for more.

I draw her up and kiss her, tasting myself on her fingers. We fold into an embrace, and I roll her onto her back.

“My turn.”

I hold her gaze, kissing over the slight mounds of her breasts, and down the soft skin of her stomach. She is already wet when I reach her. I open her with my tongue, slowly. Her natural responses are unguarded and refreshingly young. I smile, and slide a solitary finger inside, feeling her snug heat, smooth as wet silk. Watching over her, my tongue finds the place that makes her hips lift and fall. Then, her breathing fractures.

“Don’t stop.” It is not a plea. It is an instruction.

I bring her to the edge and hold her there longer than she expects. In her eyes, I see a blissful concern. This is a realm beyond her experience. I will be kind; she is young.

“Come for me.” It sounds as sultry and seductive as I can make it.

Manon responds, revealing a personal fantasy. She elevates from the bed, arching with eager cries. My tongue chases her rigid clit, my finger kissing the place inside that animates her. Her hand grips the sheet, twisting her body. She tightens with a croak, jolts once, then shakes hard. Nurturing her aftershocks, I kiss her sex until she reaches for me.

“Enjoy that?” I ask.

She nods, feverishly.

Manon pulls on me and kisses me slowly.

“If this is too much, just say so.” I offer, reassuring her.

She smiles, lighting up her eyes. “I’m good. I was just a little nervous at lunch, that’s all.”

I smile back. “I admired your courage, inviting me here. Just be yourself.”

Those words do not feel hollow.

We lie facing each other, and Manon reaches between us again. I take her at the same moment. We caress each other at our leisure, learning the tactile pressure each of us needs. I am drawn to her bee-stung lips, placing mine on hers. When she comes a second time, it is deeper and louder. I follow soon after. My release rolls through me with sudden gasps while her forehead rests against mine. We lie in an embrace, breathless, enjoying the faint breeze.

She traces an idle line along my arm. “You’re very patient.”

“How so?”

“In bed, when you paint, when you speak. Even how you laugh.”

“I wasn’t always.”

Her eyes look at my expression for a moment, and rest back on my gaze. “What changed?”

“I learned to be this careful. Too careful, perhaps.”

Manon does not ask for more. She eases into my arms, and I let her.

-=- 17 -=-

For two days, I followed my tiny glimmer of curiosity. What might happen if I stayed? I lie here with Manon’s head resting on me. She sleeps peacefully. I can feel the embers of last night, when we had no guilt or shame. She wakes with a bleary smile, gazing into my eyes. It rests within me, an unforced moment of happiness.

“Good morning,” she murmurs.

I kiss her pouting lips. “Good morning.”

I make some coffee and bring it back to the bed.

“Are you leaving today?” she asks.

I look at the light like diamonds on the water. I turn to her. She sits naked and cross-legged on the bed with her mug in both hands.

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

She shakes her head, and her eyes smile.

We are back, ready to paint from the rocks. We eat buttery croissants fresh from the boulangerie. Gulls cry and break the sharp silence. The water against the old stones softens it. The air carries ozone, hot stone, and diesel smoke from the boats. They are ready to slip their moorings again.

Manon argues with me about using earth tones for the shadows. I make her prove her point on paper. This time, she is right. Sometimes she is stubbornly wrong and refuses to correct it. When she finally laughs at her mistake, the sound is hearty and uninhibited. I find myself laughing with her.

We eat lunch, and she wants to bicker about earth tones again over a second bottle of cheap wine. My first answers are measured. The next ones are not, laced with an easy smile.

Manon looks at me and ponders for a while. “You’re different from when I met you.”

“How so?”

“Less uptight.” She pauses. “Dare I say it, young again?”

I know she is teasing me. “You’re a bad influence.”

She is unrepentant. “Good.”

In the heat of the afternoon, we return to her apartment. The shutters are half-closed. The light falls in narrow bands across the room. She undresses, parading around naked for my pleasure. I join her, and we move with a seductive nonchalance. Giggling, I take her in my arms. I pick her up and carry her to the bed.

Our single kiss is the only incendiary we need.

I kiss the inside of her wrist, the soft skin on her forearm. Descending her body, my lips and tongue linger on her breasts and nipples. I kneel before her, taking her legs until her back curls. I hold her thighs apart, intimately exposing her. I kneel between them, letting them rest on my shoulders. When my tongue parts her folds, she lofts a soft whimper.

From her, my mouth and tongue enjoy her essence, and how her sex blooms. She trembles, and her vacant whimpers stiffen into broken cries. I will not hurry her until her body tightens. As my sweetest mercy, I suck on her clit, and she lets go, shaking violently with yelping cries.

Manon takes me with the intensity of how she paints, growing in confidence. With a patient mouth and steady hands, she reveals what she knows of me. She uses her fingers on me, and holds me through it. I have no cares or worries, no preoccupations or questions. I rise and fall on a sea of sighs. As I ascend, she lets its intensity peak. Watching over me, my release rushes from the depths, long and urgent.

I am here in Collioure, and amongst my happiest memories. Manon has stitched the fabric of time together.

Later, I turn her onto her stomach, and I ask her to get onto her knees. I kneel alongside her. My fingers take her from behind, as my other hand reaches beneath her. Cool words tell her what I am going to do. They provoke her sudden wetness and deep, plaintive moans.

She pushes back against me, taking what she needs, her flushed face pressed into the pillow. Her cries punctuate the lapping of distant waves and distant gulls. She fights it until I feel the exact second when she releases control. She orgasms with prolonged shudders, grasping my fingers. They remain inside her until she slumps, panting.

Only then do I surprise her, making her climb again. It is my gift to her. It does not tease. She spasms hard, and croaks after an unfamiliar cry, flailing with jagged hips. She is listless afterwards, and then laughs. I feel it running through me. The sound of it stays with me longer than the climax itself.

“I like this,” she murmurs.

“So do I.”

She pauses. “You don’t have to leave tomorrow, do you?”

“No.”

She gathers me into her arms, as the thrill swells inside me.

-=- 18 -=-

I am losing count of our days together, and when I think, it is five. We are back on the rocks. Each brushstroke is a small pleasure. I smile for the hour we have spent in happy contentment. Manon works with a fierce concentration, and then, the moment we finish, she wants to move. She teases me about how I pack my easel away. Then she starts about the notes I keep on colours and the times of the day. She laughs at how I look both ways crossing the quietest street in Collioure.

Later that afternoon, we are hot, and she drags me into the water fully clothed. She laughs as I stand there, soaked. I join in, unfazed about how long the linen will take to dry.

We continue painting, and I watch her struggling with the reflected light. Her brush stalls. She scrapes the paper harder than necessary, starting again with that tight jaw. When her second attempt fails, she lets out a frustrated sigh and throws her brush down.

“You remind me of someone, Manon.”

She looks up. “Who?”

“Myself. At your age.”

She waits for me to explain.

“I used to live as you do. I lived for its pleasures. I was… carefree.”

“What happened?”

“I decided that was my biggest problem. I shut that side of me down as hard as I could. I called it growing up.”

She looks concerned as if that is her fate too. “Was it? Growing up?”

I gaze out at the dazzling sea, dancing before my eyes in this impossible light.

“No. It was the worst decision I ever made.”

Manon watches me. Those words came from an unguarded thought, never admitted in silence, and never spoken to anyone. The sudden weight of them makes me look away, ashamed and exposed.

She returns to mixing colours on her palette. “You don’t paint like someone who denies themself. And you don’t laugh like that either.”

I have no answer for that except to look at her and smile.

-=- 19 -=-

After dinner, back in her apartment, Manon douses me with chilled wine. As I squeal, she pushes me onto her bed. She licks it from me, and she knows how to provoke the intensity of my arousal. She pulls on my hard nipples, and her fingers caress that place inside me. I crackle with her outlandish confidence. She watches me the whole time, focused on my breathing. Her lips and tongue work me into a restless frenzy. And then, when I am close, she slows deliberately.

She grins at my frustration. “Ooh, Elodie. Have I found your weakness?”

Her voice is hushed and amused.

“Yes. And no.” Her fingers twist inside me. “Oh, God! Don’t stop.”

She continues until I come, longer and harder than before. I let her see it all. She stays inside me. Then, she climbs up and kisses me, sharing my climax.

I take her slowly, letting it build, holding her at the brink when she starts to rush. She makes those pleading sounds I like, so I tease her some more. My mouth is between her legs, showing her how much I love doing this. My fingers keep her at the brink until she rocks like the boats in the harbour. Her body stalls; it tightens until she trembles. The sudden zeal of my tongue is too much. It comes from somewhere buried deep, gripping my fingers tightly. I rise up, and let her hold me, as I stir her clit. She rises again, holding me close, until her body lurches and shudders hard in my arms.

“How…” She swallows, still fighting for air, “how do you do that?”

“Because I can. Because I want you to know how alive you are.”

We lie on the bed, trying to catch the breeze. She reaches for my hand, and slides her fingers between mine. We enjoy the silence, letting our bodies cool.

When I roll onto my side, Manon joins me. I caress her cheek, lost in her gaze. Easing my thigh between her legs, I pull her close.

“Rub against it,” I whisper.

Manon watches me, curious and unafraid. I let her press her thigh against my slippery heat too. We kiss as passionate teenagers, sliding and grinding on each other. I am not guarded or careful. I must burn that all away. She accelerates with her flowing hips, with ravaged breathing and her forehead pressed to mine. In a close embrace, her warm breath caresses me. She is close, as we hold each other tight.

Manon leans back, looks into my eyes, and whispers my name. She reveals how it consumes her. Inspired by its intimacy, I follow her soon after.

Her fingers rest on my face, and her soft gaze invites me to stay on them.

“You’re amazing,” she whispers.

She presses her lips against mine, and I can feel the difference.

This does not feel temporary any more. I want to stay.

-=- 20 -=-

Cooling ourselves in the shower, we wash each other’s hair. I let her sketch me naked until the light fails. Such is the thrill of modelling for her, we kiss, caress, and slide together again. I am perched above Manon, holding her leg, keeping her open. We work together through trial and error, flexing and grinding. We climb the heights, and fall as if weightless. We do not think; pure instinct guides us, motivated by mutual pleasure.

Wrung out on the bed, we gasp like caught fish, hot as if the sun blazes over us. She rests with her arm draped over me, claiming me as her possession. I lie awake longer than usual, listening to the sea and her soft breathing.

I dare to remember.

I am twenty-six, dressed in Dior, sitting in a Saint-Germain restaurant. The atmosphere is dignified, the tablecloth is thick and heavy, the wine is expensive and serious.

My fiancé describes the house we will buy in the Sixth Arrondissement, when I love the Eighth. The children we will have, two, maybe three. The way our weekends will be, and the summer at our second home on the Côte d’Azur.

He is certain. He is happy. I return his smile. I feel, with total conviction, that I am a grown-up.

There will be no more parties until three in the morning. I have rejected my libertine existence and my sexuality. That was an immature phase, and I am wiser now. I am choosing a moral life. A serious life. A life sealed by a vow to God, and to live as he intended.

Yet, I feel that deep hurt inside, and I push it down deep, bricking it up to wither and die.

Manon sleeps, and the ghost of our laughter lingers amongst the carnal scent in the air. This is a place where needs and wants are tamed. I have lived through the eyes of Manon and my younger self.

God has not struck me down.

-=- 21 -=-

I wake before her. The light already fills the room. Manon’s arm rests where I lay. Her face is soft and beautiful, and I watch the slow rise and fall of her breathing. I feel it. It stretches the scars where my heart broke years ago. My hand reaches towards her hair, and it stops. I keep it there, suspended, and then I pull back.

Sitting at the table, I drink coffee while the harbour comes to life. My packed bag sits by the door. When Manon wakes, she sees it, and her smile fades.

“You’re going.”

“Yes. I must.”

She pauses. “I understand.”

I can see her unhappiness, but she does not ask me to change my mind. I do not explain because she does not ask. The morning is hot, and the temperature is rising. She walks me down the steep lane to the van.

Manon stands before me, trying to hide her sadness. “Thank you.”

I reach out and caress the side of her face. “No. Thank you.”

She smiles with the same smile she gave me that first morning. I gather her into my arms and hold her close. We kiss once, briefly, and I know I am faltering. We are reduced to a gaze that cannot bear to look away. I despise long goodbyes, but she deserves one.

Manon turns away, my throat thickens, and she walks towards the harbour, looking back once. I raise my hand to her; she does the same.

I drive with the windows down, and the road climbs inland through the vineyards. The air is heavy with heat. I cannot swallow my emotions back.

Parking in a lay-by, I climb into the van and take out a folio. Opening it, I stare back at my watercolours of Collioure. The colours blur with no precise edges. I taught Manon that. Looking through them, I can see where careful became carefree. I can see my happiness.

She taught me something else.

I am with my first love - Martin. I remember his trust and constant love. He saw me, fully, for who I really am. I sigh. It is nostalgia. The rest of it runs away from me: the argument, the ring, and the hospital. I am not ready to chase after it.

I was young once. It rouses a small tear.

The woman who sat in that Saint-Germain restaurant at twenty-six? She ruined her life.

I cannot be true to myself, Marthe.

I wanted Manon this morning. I wanted to paint with her, to kiss her and have sex with her.

I wanted to stay because… I had feelings for her. I forgot I am nearly forty. I was young again.

I must go because I cannot imagine what it is to love.

Closing my folio, I put it back and slam the van doors.

The sea is dazzling.

I start the engine and drive.