The Sand Dunes of Paris

1

Albert first became aware that Anais existed before he’d seen either her face or her body. That first time she’d been only a voice. That first time, which would be etched clearly in his memory, he’d only heard her voice and sat up in bed, terrified by sudden passion, listening to her moans.

Ohhhh —

Then quiet. And, again, Ohhh —

And the silence which had wrapped the old building in which he lived — and all the neighboring buildings, the entire 4th arrondissement, the whole beautiful city — grew denser and deeper. He grasped the end of the blanket to wrap it around his back because — even though the heavy rains that had been falling on the city for an entire night and half a day had suddenly stopped, and the weather had warmed, and it seemed as if, now, summer had come — that night the chill had again invaded the tiny apartment in which he lived, made him shiver, aroused a dull pain in his back.

Ohhh —

He dropped the blanket, tensed.

Ohhh —

A gentle, pure, fragile moan — a solitary note in the silence — escaping from a barely open mouth through lips parted above a taut chin.

Is a woman crying behind her half-closed, faintly-lit window? Is she moaning in pain? His hand seemed to recover, resumed the movement that had been interrupted in mid-air. He wrapped his bare back in the blanket and his body, which had stiffened, relaxed slightly and his head fell back on the pillow.

Ohhh —

Albert rose on his elbows, fully awake. He bent his head toward...