The third day was Valentine's Day. I heard the old hinges shrill in my dreams, ringing through the fairytale rivers and fields, but slept on for the moment. He was elbow deep in my mother's hope chest when I did wake, alerted by wind blowing my things off the dresser top in a noisy clatter. The thief whirled, cursing quietly, and my bed squeaked at my movement. I didn't speak, when he looked at me, eyes indistinguishable in the low light. I barely moved, heart beating in my throat. That same wind caught the window, still hanging open. The hinges sounded again, that familiar sound echoing back strangely from my dreams, and it broke me from the spell. I beckoned to him. He stood slowly, like a beast with its eyes trained on a hunter. I held my breast through my gown with a hand and shifted beneath the blankets, so the fabric dipped between my spread thighs. Still afraid to speak, wary that a sound might send him scurrying, I quirked my fingers again. Come. He did. Still slowly, moving. On the day of departure, we met at the airport we were chatting and flirting like we normally did and I thought to myself “I wonder if anything is going to happen?” As it turned out Julia was thinking exactly the same. Just before we went through passport control, Julia linked arms with me and whispered “why don’t we leave our normal lives here and pick them up when we get back”. The way she said it and the way she affectionately squeezed my arm made it pretty clear what she meant, and without hesitating I said “good idea”. Then a strange atmosphere descended across the two of us, as throughout the rest of the journey to Nice airport we hardly spoke to each other, and when we did it was bordering on monosyllabic. Later on it became obvious why, as in my case throughout the journey I was nursing a raging hard on that would not seem to go away. When we arrived at Nice we were met and e****ted to a queue of fellow conference delegates, who one by one got on one of the two coaches. When.
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