A weekend in Paris at the turn of the year. Musee D'Orsay, Montemartre & Père Lachaise


Sage had fallen asleep with Fiorinda tucked against him: his chin on her shoulder, his arm around them both, a safe and good place to be; in many ways, the best place that the world can hold. But they moved away from him in the night, had to have their fucking personal space, he couldn't cure them of the habit. Slighted, and also cold, he lay there with the early morning light seeping through his lashes, frosting his eyeballs. He was thinking about his greatcoat, which was...