See me and kiss me.
Conversations...
An ancient unknown person produces an extraordinary artifact. Bonaparte raids and brings it to the museum. The artist immortalizes.
We feel our own doom. She describes dilemmas. He listens intently, treasuring every phrase, every intonation, and every wave of emotive logic. "Don't try and fix everything, but try to feel everything," he reminds himself.
Hearing each other's stories, their minds' eyes grow wider, their comprehension of their differences increases, and their sympathy toward each other grows. The feeling is as intense as, but very different from, passionate sex.
They leave for a café but don't remember eating at all, or paying the bill. She wonders if her mate will eventually find her intellectually boring or physically unattractive. She mulls over chronic struggles across the families and what to do for her aging parents. Is it possible to properly raise her babies while maintaining a challenging career?
He searches his mind for insights, correlates, causality, remedy. Youth, gender, circumstance, social intelligence, self-interest, inertia, confusion, hope, resilience, determination, effort, focus, follow through, compassion, pity, togetherness, refuge, unconditional love. He revels in sending up questions to her beautiful mind, and watching it purr and churn and respond. But he doesn't tell her anything to do because he knows she understands it all anyway.
And he, just wants to talk about building a magnificent enterprise that will improve millions of lives, be immensely profitable, and outlive him. Everything else is already done -- success, family and friends. He wants her to join him on this adventure.
Back at the hotel on Champs Elysees, they make love, shower and dress for dinner. It's getting late. Their last supper at Montparnasse and afterwards they'll walk beside the Seine and listen to the revelers on the passing boats.
Staving off the inevitable.
Facing reality...
In the morning it's time to go home.
We pass through security at the cement airport.
The canal that leads back to our regular people and lives.
And those waiting for us will be happy.
We didn't hurt them.
We are coming back to them on time.
But I hope to travel alone with her again someday.
Our parallel.
Remembrance...
Your happy mouth, the sunlight, your eyes toward mine.
We are bonded too. Goodbye Now.
You with yours, me with mine. Working and working.
Loving them, doing them, being them.
Me nothing but a memory like a shadow like a book like a story
Epilogue...
I'm 81 and remembering you in my shock. My poor wife's body cooling further even as I wonder, who should I call now? Shouldn't I be calling my son? I don't remember how we do it now. Just now I can't remember that.
I'm mourning her. She was the light and love of my long life. She was everything to me, my savior, lover and friend. There were hardships but we raised beautiful children and she sucked me five thousand times and gave her body and time and love. Beside that were you and I. Four explosive days in Paris, every four thousands days; that's what The Fates gave us. Whereas she and I got 65 years. Wonderful and glorious years. I loved you both with such intensity.
My mind is sharp again. Did it work, did the dream work?
I call for help with the body.
...
Now at 93, it's my turn to die. The sense of slipping away is always there. Time has ground me up and down, through my fragmented brain pulses fires from cough-wracked lungs, siren screaming tinnitus and dull aches from every joint but I cling to life to savor the memories of you in Paris.
I focus on your cream colored breasts, muscle-ripped torso, proud shoulders, and fiery eyes as you thrust and rotate your powerful hips, grinding them down and enveloping me in unfathomable ecstasy.
I hold on to you through these moments.
Those feasting, glorious few days.
I loved you to the last.
