The Snake Stone

71

Sunlight slid across the divan as the afternoon wore on.

He broke away from her once: from her interest. She had understood. She soothed him back to her with little cries, like a bird. She had put her fingers to his lips.

“Max never kissed me like that,” she said finally.

He left her reading the Gyllius; it was the least he could do.

“Remember, Gyllius is writing about a vanished world. Perhaps something in this will spark a memory.”

He caught a last glimpse of her on the divan: her hair in the sun, a finger on her chin, and the curve of her hip like a wave that could drown him.