On top, you are wearing my shirt, beneath you are naked, studying the map.
I watch you bend your knee, bring your big toe up to grasp the railing behind you. Your heel and buttock, opposing curves, almost touching.
Me: Hey, you.
You, looking, then feigning confusion, pointing at yourself: Me?
Me, grinning: You.
Me: Come over here. I need a kiss.
You swing your leg over the railing. My eyes drift down, between your legs.
You, pulling at the hem of the shirt: Perv.
Your hand sweeps my hair back, brushes sleep from my eyes. You kiss me on either eyelid then on the lips.
You: Good morning.
You, pulling the map aside: We made the papers.
The front page: A photo of Salome’s empty frame. The title: Vol Osé au Musée Gustave Moreau.
Me, sitting up, anxious, returning to the reality of the last days: Shit! Do they have any leads?
You, straight face: Nothing much, just something about the getaway car—a Green Porsche 914.
Me, blanching: What!?
You, kissing me again: Just kidding.
Me, taking a breath, turning toward the half-open closet, and the Louvre tube: Did you hear that Salome? We made the papers. Front page.
You, extending: Salome! Time to call your mom. She’ll be sooo proud.
We return to Departmental roads heading south. Two lanes, harvested wheat fields on either side. A moment of living in another time.
The heat is oppressive. Sun directly overhead. Sweat soaks through my shirt.
You read ‘Against the Grain.’ Something about a liquor organ. I barely listen.
You, closing the book: You know, I’m a little disappointed you’re not wearing your driving gloves.
Rows of plane trees, their canopies providing an amalgam of shade and the blinding serrated edge of the sun. A fan’s whir with each one we pass.
We traverse towns, shuttered, silent, seemingly abandoned.
You, pointing to a fountain in a central square, emphatically: S-T-O-P.
Together, half-obsessed: Water.
I dunk my head into the cool, pull up and splash a loose pattern of spray across the fountain’s base. Let out a whoop.
You, no inhibitions, jumping in: I’m going for the full baptism.
Me, admiring the curve of your breasts, your nipples erect: More like a wet t-shirt contest.
Turning your back to me, you raise your skirt, pulling your panties aside, presenting your submerged cunt.
You, looking up at me: So. Are you coming in?