Nothing Is Sacrosanct. David E Balaam

eight-fifteen. Simone opened the door gingerly. “You look awful,” she said truthfully, and pulled him into her arms, closing the door before the neighbours spotted her visitor.

      Marcus slept until early afternoon. “Hello,” Simone said, as he entered the cosy kitchen/diner area. “Hungry?”

      “Starving, actually,” he said, kissing Simone on the cheek as if they were in a domestic husband and wife scenario. Simone knew better than to ask probing questions. She sat and watched him eat, reading the newspaper as he did. “Anything in here I should be looking for?” she asked, hesitantly, looking over the top of the tabloid. Marcus looked at her and frowned. “Why should there be?” he asked, finishing his brunch. Simone had no idea why Marcus had visited her at short notice, although his visit was a welcome diversion from her mundane life. Since leaving Chaucer's Boarding School for Girls, Simone had survived teaching French privately, and some translation work for a London publisher. Truth was, however, her life was a contradiction. She had embraced free love and sensual pleasures with both men and women, but she had never had a long-lasting meaningful relationship, with either sex. She was, if she had to admit it, jealous of Barbara, her one-time student, now living with a man more her age; a man whom she could commit to and devote her life to.

      “Sorry, Marcus, just joking with you.” Simone folded the paper and sipped her coffee. “That's the problem, is it not, with us, Marcus, being European?” Marcus looked confused. “What problem?” he asked with interest.

      “Us . . . me . . . you . . . being foreigners here in England. I have been here for nearly twenty years, Marcus, and I still yearn to return to France. I have never felt at home here. Don't you feel the same, coming from Austria?” Simone asked, hoping she could get closer to this mysterious man.

      Marcus thought of Simone as intelligent, charming and sensual, and without inhabitations. So what was worrying her? “I don't understand, Simone. I thought you were happy here. Why all this talk of returning to France.” Simone shook her head and forced a smile. “You and Barbara have a wonderful relationship, and I suppose I am looking for my Marcus, but I have left it too late.”

      She stood to turn, not wanting Marcus to see her cry, but the sobbing could not be hidden. Marcus stood behind her holding her shoulders. “You could always come and live with us if you wanted to,” he said, sincerely. Simone turned to face him but looked down, blinking away a tear. “Je suis juste être stupide.”

      Marcus tipped her chin upwards to look into her watery eyes. “No, you are not. I mean what I said. At least think about it, please. Besides, Barbara needs taking in hand, sometimes.” Simone choked a laugh. “She does not,” she said, playfully slapping his arm, then hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Marcus. I will think about it,” she said sounding brighter, moving her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her moist and needy mouth, knowing she could never share him, with anyone.