Making love. Everywhere
SATURDAY, July 10 – Call it idyllic. I’ve flown to the south of France this morning. Under the olive trees, fourteen steps away from the swimming pool, the sun that winks at us under the parasol. Our tempo is lazy now that my children are three thousand miles from here and hers are with their father. We kiss.
We saunter via the kitchen to the bedroom, where we make love. And then we stroll to the pool to rinse the sweat away. Recover in the sun, where again we can’t keep our hands off each other, and now feeling sheltered enough under the tall hedges. And so, we pass our days drinking wine, eating, making love, sleeping, cuddling. It’s permitted. We’re allowed to live.
Diary of a Widower 