Standing by a rock marking the world’s centre, I say, “If I were Paris, I’d have given you the apple.” “With or without bribery?” you ask, smiling.
Later, in the hotel, we make love as a mist rises to create a bubble around us.
Afterwards you bite into an apple, your hand rising to halt the juice flow. I wonder if I’m in paradise, you say the whiteness of the room suggests so.
We wish to stay forever but we know it’s too expensive. Our thoughts return to the rock and we agree this is the centre, our little bubble.