Right there in the middle of the piazza, he grabbed her, pulled her close, and planted his soft, delicious lips on hers. They stood there in each other’s arms
while time just stopped. Lips locked.
Knees weak. Frozen in
time.
The world rushed by– the
taxis beeped past, the businessmen marched their attaches to their fifth floor
offices, and the mothers whisked their kids off to school.
But they just stood there, literally frozen in space, and
time. Lovers reunited across
thousands of miles, and years of lifetimes.
How did they get here?
How did they find each other, after all these years? When she finally opened her eyes, and
found his gaze locked on her, she realized it was all true.
A year ago, the glimpse of a familiar
face in a magazine photo. The letter to the editor, forwarded to the
photographer. The translator who
helped her negotiate the maze that finally led to an address on the outskirts
of Paris. She had taken a chance,
and had written a somewhat formal business-sounding letter –
“Dear Sir, It was
recently brought to my attention that you may have once worked in the City
Chronicle’s travel bureau in ’46.
I was a photographer in that same said office and have been in search of
information on a little known isle in the Mediterranean from which my
grandmother emigrated in 1902.
I’ve never been able to learn very much of this unique place, except I
remember there was once an article in the Chronicle written by a young
gentleman who had traveled there for the express purpose of uncovering the
hidden charms of an undiscovered vacation destination. Could this possibly have been you?
Would ever so much appreciate a reply.
Yours truly, Elizabeth Martine.”
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