Nestled close to the confluence of the Dordogne and Garonne Rivers lies Bordeaux. This ancient city, blessed by Napoleon and revered by wine-lovers the world over, presides proudly as capital of many of the oldest and most prestigious of the French wine Appellations.
Already the established home of some of Europe’s oldest families, by the 18th century Bordeaux was the wine centre of the world, and nestling amongst its rolling, vine packed hills and ancient villages, towers one of its gems; St Emilion. This 10th century town, carved impossibly from the hillside above the Dordogne seems frozen in time. As Alan looked down fondly on the village this September evening from his hotel room window, apart from the last of the dwindling summer tourists, it seemed nothing had changed the village in centuries. It was as if time had stood still, preserving and protecting its beauty against the ravages of an uncaring and belligerent modern world.
Defying the calculations of modern engineers, Restaurant L’Auberge jutted defiantly from the hillside. This old and renowned icon had been a magnet to village visitors and locals alike for years. Its broad terraces offering breathtaking vistas of the town and the river valley below. Alan smiled, almost sadly, and remembered his last visit there, as he donned his jacket and set off on the short walk up the hill to meet his long time friend and sometime lover.
Arriving first, an immaculately dressed Maitre-d’ showed him to a small table at the edge of the terrace. Alan soaked up the view, unchanged but as breathtaking as he remembered from his last visit. A glass of champagne had arrived unbidden and unseen. As he sipped the cold, sharp wine the sun touched the horizon lengthening the shadows and sending a shiver down his spine. It had been a while since they had met. What would he say, how would they be? It was too late now.
He looked around the terrace. A young couple were sitting in the far corner, lost in each other, oblivious to their fellow diners and the view. He could see them touching proudly and showily above the table, hand-in-hand, but more discreetly below the table as she provocatively stroked his calf with her foot. Nearer the restaurant sat a family; mum, dad and teenage kids, maybe a birthday, an anniversary? The conversation was boisterous but not noisy, affectionate and familiar but not intense and anticipatory like that of the couple lost in each other’s eyes.
A limousine drew up outside, the sound of its tires on the gravel echoing through the stone cobbled streets below. Alan looked down, but he didn’t need to; he knew it would be Becky. He watched as the chauffeur stepped nimbly around the vehicle and opened the passenger door. As she stepped out, gracefully, all his memories rushed at him, like a warm, powerful tidal wave, engulfing and confusing, yet familiar and desirable. He caught a flash of red from the soles of her Louboutin heels and felt a rush of sexual pleasure as her black dress momentarily rode up exposing just a few centimetres of her smooth tanned thigh above her fine stocking top. The chauffeur offered his arm and walked her to the restaurant door. Alan looked back to the terrace, pretending to himself his mind was focused on the champagne.
The sun was fading fast now and the air beginning to impart an autumnal chill. Picking up his glass, Alan decided to meet her in the restaurant; a coming together on neutral ground, as if neither was heading into the other’s occupied territory. Walking through the still open terrace doors, he looked around him. He could hear murmured conversation as his guest was welcomed in the lobby, but he ignored it, thinking only about the last time he was there – they were there – and how long ago and yet how recently it seemed. The tables were almost all full (one booked months ahead to eat at L’Auberge). The few that weren’t were being fussed over by slickly coiffeured table staff snapping clean white linen tablecloths over the tables like matadors and precisely aligning sparkling glassware for the next guests to enjoy. There was no tasteless background music, just a gentle buzz of restrained conversation, respectful of the venue and its promise. The grey stone walls were roughly plastered appearing to wave and flicker in the candlelight. Heavy brocade curtains hung on them, pulled to the sides of ancient windows by ornate gold holdbacks. In one corner there was a small bar with a large espresso machine occupying about one third of its space. A faint smell of delicious arabica drifted across the room. Diagonally across from the bar was the wine cave. Here crusty vintages were stored temporarily behind medieval iron bars ready to delight the knowledgeable clientele, just a sample of the vast trove of wines dating back 150 years that sat cool, dark and secure in the cellar beneath.
As he reached their candlelit table, the same one they had occupied that fateful evening years ago, he paused and caught his breath. He looked up and saw her walking towards him, smiling that radiant smile only she could wear, as her eyes locked with his. “Good evening, Alan”, she said.
“Good evening, Rebecca”, he replied. “It has been a while.”
To be continued……….
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/lo7h30/the_reunion_part_1
Very nicely done! I’m looking forward to Part 2!