Summer Blues
Summer Blues
30 August, 2025 |
Pau, France |
| xx | The last time Maurice had seen Sabine, he had been just leaving. The feverish warmth of a summer spent sticky with sweat and scraped to the bone had been drifting by, one last lifeboat for Maurice to cling to before he spiraled back into classes. The bridge wasn’t quite bustling on that Monday morning, unless a few morning joggers could count as a crowd. Maurice knew where he was meant to be, but he also knew when to be there, so he was using every spare second he could. The water of Pau was his favorite part. On days like these, when sunlight burst through the clouds and shot down on the water to color it a brilliant shade of sparkling blue, he used to imagine that the swelling pool of murky blue was a portal to another world. Once or twice he had forced himself away from that ledge, the prospect of otherworldly bliss driving him mad. Now, though, he regarded those strange thoughts with mild distaste. Magic had been at the forefront of his life ever since that damning letter had made itself apparent on his schoolwork. It had perhaps been fate that Sabine was late for her bus out of Pau. When she had begun making enough money for herself, she bought a bicycle the color of ripe lemons. Once upon a time, perhaps when Maurice was still clueless about the greater other world, she had rode it back and forth from Pau to Tarbes for music gigs, although the larger city had proven more lucrative in that regard. The latter fact had rendered her bicycle mostly useless, as the only other gigs she took were far out of the city. Today, though, she had been peddling like a madman down the old bridge, dusty curls clinging to her forehead to form a million tiny question marks. Maurice had hardly recognized it was her before the bike came screeching to a halt, nearly tossing the girl on its back in the process. A moment of wheeze-filled silence overtook the two, before Sabine pointed an accusatory finger at the smaller boy. “You’ve got… a carriage… to catch,” she managed between breaths, wiping a hand over her slick forehead. Maurice shrugged guiltily, eyes drawing slowly back to the water below. A serene pair of ducks drifted slowly by. The truth felt unavoidable. “I want to stay.” The expression that Sabine fixed him with was equal parts soft scolding and overwhelming love. She hastily escaped the clutches of her bike, resting it on the bridge railing, and took his face in both her sweaty palms. Maurice noted that she smelled vaguely of cigarettes and honey. “Sweet, sweet Mary,” she whispered, punctuating this tender nickname with a soft kiss to his temple, “It doesn’t matter what you want.” Maurice sighed, too weary to complain about the girlish nickname. Despite the dirt that burrowed itself between Sabine’s fingernails and the cracks running through her slender hands, her palms were as warm and comforting as an embrace. For a brief moment, Maurice could imagine he had never left, that the unspoken distance between him and his family had never formed. And then, Sabine’s hands fell from his face, and with them went his foolish fantasies. The older girl stepped back slowly, watching the boy with a sad expression. After a moment of quiet observation, she grabbed the handles of her bike and blew the unruly curls from her eyes. “Be well, Maurice.” The use of his real name caused Maurice to look up, a complicated frown split across his cheeks. Then, he allowed himself a neutral shrug and nod. “Be well, Sabine.” |
xx |
PC: Charlotte Winfield