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Page 3.
Chapter 1
 A blue light came steeply from a clear, starry night sky to laugh with Marc Fontbleu and Emma Delors, who were just then (at 3:05 a.m.) having a snowball fight on the slopes of a lake outside of Paris. They laughed and ran around the slopes in their private sharing. Their white teeth gleaming in moonlight, just as the lake surface glittered with ice and water.
Because they laughed and cried out joyfully but softly, nobody heard them. All the swallows had flown south for winter, and the big nasty blackbirds were asleep in their tree forts, so Marc and Emma had the world to themselves—for this precious moment only, but it might as well be a lifetime. The leaves were all down, making the trees look barren and severe.
Marc and Emma were warmly dressed after their steamy adventure. They wore ski suits (hers pink, hers blue) and wool caps and earmuffs that made their red cheeks gleam and their teeth radiant as sugar. She was thirty years old, and looked not a day older than his twenty-three. She was elegant and dramatically pretty (fashion model), while his serious demeanor and intelligently high forehead made him look older. They were a good match in so many ways. And they loved each other. The wide face of a full moon smiled warmly down on them. It was a night for pranks.
Half an hour earlier, they were busy making love in a down sleeping bag in the snow on someone’s lawn—stealthily, among pine trees and cypress bushes around silent suburban homes—while unsuspecting folks slept all around them in Créteil, Val-de-Marne to the southeast of central Paris.
Marc and Emma snuffled and giggled, writhing in each other’s warm, sweaty arms and legs; rubbing feather-soft bellies together, and ouch, clacking knee caps.
He started to roll over on her but she pushed him back. Her hand brushed along his side as they wriggled inside a downy sleeping bag for two. “Stay a little while longer—I’ve never had so much fun.”
He laughed and held her tightly as they lay side by side, looking out from their evergreen hideaway among white and sleeping houses.
A blue glow of streetlights stole with accessorial civility among the scotch pines. The air smelled sweet (scoured of its salts and sulfides, which lay buried). Sudden breezes runneled over the virgin snow fields, kicking up spiraling whitewater snow crystals, crossing the buried street to clip snow caps off dazed, beached cars. Marc and Emma sputtered and closed their eyes as cold grit blew freshly into their mouths, eyes, and nostrils.
“Whew. This is like riding in a fast motorboat,” said Marc.
“Have you ever done it in a boat?” she whispered.
“No,” he said truthfully, thinking of the nearby Lac de Créteil and its Marne River waters and summers.
“You’re lying,” she accused, slapping his arm.
He lay back with his arms behind his head. “I wish.”
“I haven’t either,” she confessed. He smiled, but she frowned and cuddled close, running her lips and hand over the hair on his chest. Between her cold fingertips, he felt the heat of her breath. She whispered barely audibly, “Let’s not delay.” They lay hidden in the shadows of pine trees.
He moved in between her long legs, guided by her eager hands; and, rocking on her firm round buttocks, consummated the release of deliciously hoarded energies. Crystal snow enveloped the hair at his neck as his head rose into tingling pine needles and they labored together. Their fingers were intertwined and white. Their groans sounded syncopated and in rapid counterpoint.
After they sank together in exhaustion, she stroked his hair slowly and steadily while he quashed a resting cheek against her shoulder. Sucking in his cheeks thoughtfully, he could see past the horizon of her cheekbone, chiseled and covered with microscopic hairs in bluish light. Her dark, liquid blue eyes, full of calculations, blinked as she looked upward through pine needles. Stars winked high up in the clear sky.
He murmured through a mouthful of inner cheek, “What are you thinking?”
She kept stroking his hair. “We’re stark naked, you know that?”
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