crush

The fields are drenched in honey and the golden fringes of poplars light up the maroon foot of the mountain. We are off to Les Halles in Avignon, which is closed, via the Godin shop, which is closed, and the organic butcher, which is also closed. It’s Monday in the Vaucluse. We forgot. We rejoice, instead, through mini windows, in the trees and in lute music .

We do, however, locate a bathroom shop and Julian falls in love. At first sight. With a tap. A tap that costs 450 euros.

We have talked that very morning about crushes.

“Have you had a crush since we married?” I asked as the first puddle of light made its way through the window and landed on our pillows.
“No”
“Would you tell me?…..Would you want to know if I had one?”
“Only if it were disturbing you.”

A pause while the black redsart sang and Manon licked my nose.

“My friends x and y tell each other when they have crushes.”
“Yeah, well, that I can understand. They're both touring. But what am I supposed to say? It wouldn’t exactly be fair. You’d come back from each tour telling me your crushes and I’d say – ‘well, I brought in the logs’ or ‘I painted a quince’ or ‘ I watched the last series of Six Foot Under’….”

Today Julian had a crush. He looked at that tap and he blushed red as the morning songbird’s breast. He talked about the object of his love all the way home and then he painted a painting which would just about pay for a lifelong companionship with the tall thin brushed blonde water dispenser.