The uniformed soldier stepped in front of me, his weapon across his chest. “Vous ne pouvez pas rentrer sans billet!”
He rushed back to my side. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not allowed any further without a ticket.” I blinked away a sting, lingering on the scar along his cheek. The different tones of his skin. More when it caught the sunlight.
“Vous devez quitter la plate-forme.”
“I have to go,” my voice came out hoarse. His fingers entwining my hair, then, gently, releasing.
“I love to watch you walk away!”
Of course you do. La douleur exquise.
Only he could make me laugh as my heart was being crushed.
Damn, I love to watch her walk away.
She turned back, overloading my senses. Her eyes flashing with love and pain, her face aglow with mischief, her laughter filling my ears, her perfume lingering on my skin.
Watching her through the glass, breathing deeply into this ache. What’s happened to me?
La douleur exquise (French), translation: The pain of wanting someone you can’t have.
Literal translation: The exquisite pain.