The evening pulsed with omens gentle to the eyes, and Valentina had a romantic crush on it all, like every good witch should.

The wind went mute and the trees in the forest stood still. It was time for the last tale.

She felt the adagio from Joaquin Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez strumming at her inner thighs like a guitar, and then slowly moving upwards until it wrapped around her heart in its denouement.

They kissed in the middle of the sidewalk, letting the crowds of people flow around them like water around an island.

Only the ocean kept the same rhythm. Crashing in and slowly pulling back out, it never lied, never changed. It tried to teach them a life of romantic consistency.

You are exposed ma chère.