[The next letter arrives does so with a pressed flower in it - a small mystery to occupy Germaine's mind, who should have access to all sorts of books on flora. The flower in question is a hyacinth native to Anatolia.]
Dearest Germaine,
I must confess to you - before knowing your hands on mine, I imagined them. That day that you signed my hand, with those nimble fingers - it is the first night you deprived me of sleep. Then, of course, I only had imaginings - I had to imagine the signed hand that travelled over my skin was yours.
How cruel of fate, now that I have known the far superior reality, to not have constant reminders of your deftness.
All of this I mention by way of saying that the spoiling travels in two directions. Every inch of me is yours, too; and as for considerations, well - you so boldly offer me many years of pleasures given and received.
I like that boldness.
But on loss, I must say a few words. I am stronger than the Pyrenees, so it will take an act of God to take me from you. As for income - that is soon to change, with the grand word 'publication' once again ahead of you. I expect you to read me passages, apropos of nothing, when we have exhausted each other. When we are curled together, tired from lovemaking, I expect you to read me passages. Perhaps we shall feed each other grapes, to be as decadent as the ancients.
My point is this: one perfect day will lead to others. And I hope that thought can help to ameliorate your fears - I will come back to you. Take you into my arms, explore and delight every inch of you.
Until then - to distract at least some of your thoughts, my newspaper insists I remain silent as to my location, but you are you - and so I have enclosed a hint for your mind to unravel.
no subject
Dearest Germaine,
I must confess to you - before knowing your hands on mine, I imagined them. That day that you signed my hand, with those nimble fingers - it is the first night you deprived me of sleep. Then, of course, I only had imaginings - I had to imagine the signed hand that travelled over my skin was yours.
How cruel of fate, now that I have known the far superior reality, to not have constant reminders of your deftness.
All of this I mention by way of saying that the spoiling travels in two directions. Every inch of me is yours, too; and as for considerations, well - you so boldly offer me many years of pleasures given and received.
I like that boldness.
But on loss, I must say a few words. I am stronger than the Pyrenees, so it will take an act of God to take me from you. As for income - that is soon to change, with the grand word 'publication' once again ahead of you. I expect you to read me passages, apropos of nothing, when we have exhausted each other. When we are curled together, tired from lovemaking, I expect you to read me passages. Perhaps we shall feed each other grapes, to be as decadent as the ancients.
My point is this: one perfect day will lead to others. And I hope that thought can help to ameliorate your fears - I will come back to you. Take you into my arms, explore and delight every inch of you.
Until then - to distract at least some of your thoughts, my newspaper insists I remain silent as to my location, but you are you - and so I have enclosed a hint for your mind to unravel.
With affection,
Adèle