enviousThere was no-one there.
He could hardly have expected there to be, he reasoned to himself. It had been the most strange and chance of chance meetings - he, rounding the corner and finding himself at a river, and the boy, startled, dropping the basket of olives he had been collecting. A cliché with a twist. The boy spoke about three words of English, Rufus no Greek, but after a minute or so they'd discovered words were a barrier they could do without. Breathless, looking at one another with a mixture of distrust, wonder and wanting, they had made love right there on the olive-strewn grass, sliding slickly against one another and finally rolling into the river beside them to clean up, all of which made him feel like something out of a Greek myth. One of the ones they didn't tell you in school.
"Tomorrow" was one of the few English words the boy had picked up. When Rufus had said it, tone inquiring-with-a-hint-of-beg, the boy had nodded. He'd taken it as a promise. He'd nodded back and the boy was suddenly gone, leaving the basket and the olives it still contained. Rufus had taken it back to the hotel and hidden it in his sister's half of the wardrobe, which he knew would remain unused throughout their stay.
"Kalimera," a soft voice said behind him. 'Good morning' - one of the two Greek words he knew. He turned around shakily.
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With thanks to Rufus Wainwright's song 'Grey Gardens'.
E.
x
