In Search of the Perfect French Kiss

True international diplomacy is not the purview of flaccid, limp rhetoric and dry, impenetrable bureaucracies. Indeed, the way to international understanding is one-on-one engagement in the universal life experience.
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Episode One - of many...

He was an American. She wasn't.
Viva la difference!


I lay in the bed, wondering what I had done. I didn't have long to come up with an answer. Outside, the thunder rumbled. Inside, the disease coursed.

The storm, with us since before dawn, continued, unrelenting. Steady streams of water broke down and across the panes of the triple, iron-framed dormer windows of the alcove ensconcing the bed. Hypnotic, calming, reassuring: they, as she, gave no hint of their high-energy source and unstable potential.

She rolled toward me, licking a wet smile over her lips. Wanting to avoid the cultural faux pas, I suppressed my morning instincts and only gave her my best smile. "Good mornin', mon chéri."

She reached out, squeezed my hand, and held it gently in the perfect, soft curve of her own. "Matin, bien-aimé..."

* * *

From behind the secrets barricading her mind, she surveyed the room. Her spirit cautiously ventured out. English into French, French on English - her thinking and feelings circled the vortex of their unforeseen meeting and unplanned rendezvous.

(There was now in the room an atmosphere of quietness and softness. I wished to forget completely my trouble and let enter into my mind all the ecstatic energy of this moment with him. My doubts were not justified. High sensibility had advantages in my life, but serious drawbacks were associated.)

(I moved closer to him. He came nearer to me. We talked a little, slowly, with pleasant times of silence, as if sleep were still there. I suggested to stand up, he agreed - but we delayed that separation for a few minutes longer...)

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