[The next reply takes four days to come, and the paper is smudged here and there - and slightly singed on one corner.]
Darling Germaine,
It takes a while to set pen to paper - why must so many hidden gems be guarded by fire? Oh, yes, one can admire the handiwork of the ancients, but some variety, some variation would be nice. Suffice to say, things have taken what one might call 'a turn.'
I'm off further eastwards, into the Dodecanese - and their beauty is familiar and yet lessened, now. My preference is to share, now, for reasons I am sure you can guess at, so I won't bother with being coy.
Also, following this letter will be some truly excellent olive oil and several bottles of ouzo. When I return, you'll see what I can make of Greek cooking.
[This, at least, Germaine would do well to take with a grain of salt - Adele is an appalling cook. It's a sweet offer, but one best left to professionals.]
Your words, though. Oh, your words. They bring me closer to saying things that I refuse to put to paper. They must, will, be spoken in person. Preferably in hot, exhausted kisses as we emerge from the haze of passion. Remind me, one night, to take you up to the roof after our intimacies. Wear only the sheets from the bed - letting the night air of Paris caress your body back into coolness.
I suspect this, too, will be better shared with you.
Also, your brother's head is going to feel like exploding in close proximity to me. If he can sense improper thoughts, well. I wear them proudly on a wide variety of subjects. Perhaps I will drive him away with mere cries of 'votes for women!' or the tale of one of the several occasions upon which I have impersonated a priest.
(The worst part is the moustache.)
A digression I hope made you smile. I adore your smile, among many other things.
With profound affection (and from a depressingly lonely camp-bed), Adele
no subject
Darling Germaine,
It takes a while to set pen to paper - why must so many hidden gems be guarded by fire? Oh, yes, one can admire the handiwork of the ancients, but some variety, some variation would be nice. Suffice to say, things have taken what one might call 'a turn.'
I'm off further eastwards, into the Dodecanese - and their beauty is familiar and yet lessened, now. My preference is to share, now, for reasons I am sure you can guess at, so I won't bother with being coy.
Also, following this letter will be some truly excellent olive oil and several bottles of ouzo. When I return, you'll see what I can make of Greek cooking.
[This, at least, Germaine would do well to take with a grain of salt - Adele is an appalling cook. It's a sweet offer, but one best left to professionals.]
Your words, though. Oh, your words. They bring me closer to saying things that I refuse to put to paper. They must, will, be spoken in person. Preferably in hot, exhausted kisses as we emerge from the haze of passion. Remind me, one night, to take you up to the roof after our intimacies. Wear only the sheets from the bed - letting the night air of Paris caress your body back into coolness.
I suspect this, too, will be better shared with you.
Also, your brother's head is going to feel like exploding in close proximity to me. If he can sense improper thoughts, well. I wear them proudly on a wide variety of subjects. Perhaps I will drive him away with mere cries of 'votes for women!' or the tale of one of the several occasions upon which I have impersonated a priest.
(The worst part is the moustache.)
A digression I hope made you smile. I adore your smile, among many other things.
With profound affection (and from a depressingly lonely camp-bed),
Adele