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JULY 26
It was our last summer together, though we couldn’t have known it. Love in the time of Covid. Our 45th wedding anniversary, which we were going to celebrate in a studio apartment in the Marais, on the first floor (unheard of in Paris) opening into a flower-filled courtyard. But cancelled— no international flights. And here, brutal heat that pressed like an anvil when we made infrequent runs for groceries or the mail. Our favorite restaurant had a tent, but the humidity meant dining in a sea of sweat, so we ordered take-out, ate it at the kitchen table in the cool breath of air conditioning: filet mignon with demi-glaze, buttermilk mashed potatoes, red wine braised onions, asparagus, maitake mushrooms, some gooey dessert, all of which we split— it was too hot to eat more. We should have been extravagant, Champagne instead of my austere glass of Bordeaux. But how were we to know the trip would never happen, that this anniversary would be our last? Because we never wanted it to end—nights wrapped around each other, holding hands on our evening walk, kisses sweeter and darker than chocolate. Who coined the word “forever”; did he know it was a lie? Barbara Crooker |
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