Thursday, July 28, 2011


The concrete floor of the new outdoor bandstand was still wet to the touch. On a lover’s whim they pressed their hands into it, flat-palmed but fingers linked together. Then they added their initials. Two weeks later the pair were back, dancing to Moonlight Serenade. In fifteen days he was dead, his Spitfire shot down over the North Atlantic. After a while she married a banker from the Caisse Populaire. They had three children. She died in 2000 at the age of eighty. Their ghost hands remained entwined until the building was torn down to make way for a St-Hubert’s.

[Image adapted from Under My Turquoise Umbrella]

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