The Rue de Souligny is a narrow street bordered with the high, prim houses of the French countryside. Whitewashed stucco gleams in the sunlight with voices and scents emanating from behind wooden slat shutters closed over open panes of window-glass. Aimée and her sister Stéphanie are our height - that is to say, Stéphanie matches my height in a long-legged and lithe, dark red haired way, prototypically chic. Aimée is your height, a sandy blonde shot through with streaks of middling red in such a way that suggests its a natural attribute to her shoulder-length hair. Her fashion is a light yellow sundress belted around a narrow waist, loosely-woven fabric fitting more closely to her form than her sister's low-necked dress of pale green. A sprinkle of light freckles dusts Stéphanie's neck and the top of her chest, probably extending to wrap around her shoulders. I try not to let such thoughts distract me.
Cobblestoned, the Rue de Souligny takes our combined weight and that of the sleek 735i easily. Soft leather seats in the back support the French girls, legs crossed modestly and yet enticingly; achingly curved calves and smooth, pale skin. They know what they're doing, as my eyes flick over them in the rearview mirror and soft, small smiles grace their faces. The bright blue eyes of Stéphanie match yours, and your full lips part in a smile as my hand drifts from the gearshift to your thigh, encased in form-fitting denim. A quick stroke, gentle squeeze, and I feel the touch of gracefully long fingers across the back of that hand. The car takes even these sharp corners of Lycome easily. We've turned onto Boulevard de Souvenir, also cobblestoned, and the BMW silently, smoothly, comes to a stop beside a elegant structure built of mortared stone blocks, windows and shutters thrown open to fresh spring air. It is a true Château, that of Chevaler, a French Huguenot who suddenly found himself unwelcome in La Belle France during the Revolution. An arched stone doorway holds the heavy wooden doors that are opened to a tiled floor and stone walls, smaller wooden doors recently installed in the back of this entranceway. The French sisters bound from the car, doors thumping shut behind them as Aimée takes the stairs two at a time, passing through the arch to fling open two of the smaller doors. She turns, face lit by a white smile. Stéphanie waits as I offer you my hand and help you from the car, shut the door behind you, and look over the car's roof to notice again the lack of wrought iron decorated gates or the stone wall that would have stood here earlier, shutting off this small plaza from the Boulevard de Souvenir.
We're shown inside. Voices soon fill the space we've entered to its high ceiling as lightly accented English from either one of the girls informs us of history, architecture, that the boards used to make the wooden floor and stairwell that our shoes click on as we walk upstairs came from the woods across the lake, Lac du Montignac, which now boasts some trees over a century old and is veined through with packed earth walking paths. No ground clutter beyond mid-height grasses and the occasional fallen leaf in this season mar the idyllic area, frequented by the locals. Our bedroom is quite the sight; wood floors and plastered ceiling hung with a chandelier, elegant furniture against the walls, a large doubled bed. Your face lights up in delight as you realize it's a canopied bed sheeted generously with crisp linens and a down-filled comforter. The pillows are also down-filled, clean white against the rich, tanned crème of the sheet just under the comforter. The curtains are either a very light inner curtain, a translucent cream as that one sheet is, or a more opaque, tightly woven and heavier curtain on a rail outside the inner rail, which carries the cream-coloured curtain.
Windows are open to the inside with the wooden shutters closed, fresh air flooding the room. A bookcase stands near the door, featuring a pewter-grey chain screwed into the doorframe on its plate and the matching receptacle on the door; when latched it would allow the door to open but a few centimetres before the chain stopped it. A full bathroom, modern, is behind a closed door. It has a soaker tub that could easily fit four, lowered flush with the tiled floor. A shower stall adjoins, no glass partition. The floors are very slightly sloped as all properly constructed bathroom floors are, to allow runoff to the gleaming drains. Already impressed by the decor, the bathroom nearly floors me. I tilt back on my heels and make as if to fall over backwards. Laughing, you "catch" me, to the pleased amusement of Stéphanie and Aimée.
Then we're left alone. A few hours later, time we'd spent exploring the Château, I meet Aimée's boyfriend, a tall Gaul with a few inches on my height and the same dark colouring. Thomas's nose looks slightly crooked, as if he took a straight jab at some point and it didn't quite set right as it healed. This does nothing to diminish his charm, I grin as Aimée turns to putty in his embrace, then accept his offer of help. The four bags easily make their way upstairs over the polished dark wood of the stairwell. I decide I like this fellow despite the admiring, evaluative sweep of your figure his dark eyes perform as he meets you for the first time. A Gallic shrug outside on the plaza as we shake hands. I'm informed that I am a lucky fellow. Aimée strikes a pose as I look her way, eliciting a grin. I turn back to Thomas.
"Likewise. Take care."
And then they're gone, motoring out of the plaza in a finely maintained sport coupé of some kind I can't recognize. This leaves me with Stéphanie and yourself, the former standing in the doorway and yourself standing framed by the shutters in our bedroom. You lean out as Stéphanie walks towards me, blow me a kiss. I catch it, brush my fingers against my cheek and return the kiss - surprised, our chic guide spins around and glances up, waves goodbye and calls out to you: "I need to borrow your man! He can drive me home!"
"So long as he comes back, Stéphanie!"
I open the door for her, close it gently and walk around behind the car. Before I open the door on my side, I look up to where you are again. You smile, I touch my closed fist to my chest, over my heart, and wave. You wave back and I get into the car. The German sedan's engine turns over smoothly and I turn towards the gate - loathe to leave, I glance over my shoulder to see you turning away from the window and disappearing deeper into the room. Turning back, Stéphanie catches my eye with her expression, a small-smiled look radiating her thoughts, something along the lines of 'adorable. Lucky girl.' I smile the warm half-smile at her and let her direct me down cobblestoned streets. A large panel-sided truck spoils the pristine day, pulling ahead. On the narrow street there is no safe chance of passing him. Windows roll up at the touch of a switch and I drop back a few meters. The gaps between houses widen, I notice fuller yards, two children playing catch. The panel truck turns off into a cul-de-sac and my following glance in that direction reveals a house being moved into. I press the accelerator and let the car jump ahead on the smooth pavement of this suburban road.
"Close?"
"Not yet. I live in the countryside, away from the town. I like the quiet - and it was my aunt's place."
"Was?"
"She has a... penthouse suite, I think it is called, in Reims now."
"Impressive, Stéphanie. What does she do for a living?"
Our small-talk continues for a while. In the lull, she turns on the radio, pressing "seek" until she finds what she wants. I don't mind, being unable to think of anything interesting to talk about. In the lull between two upbeat pop songs, she turns her head in my direction.
"We're almost there. A left at this intersection here, and then take the first dirt road you see. That leads right to my front door."
