“Chanu,” Claire sighs into her sheets. And evokes the feel of his husky low voice, the vibrations of his full lips and the taste of his strong dark rough hands. And there, on stormy nights, she gives herself up to the memories of shivers that had nothing to do with cold. And of warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Chanu,” Claire sobs into her pillow. And there, on stormy nights, she allows herself to remember the land and her first playmate. That first friend who became her first love. That first lover who became her first betrayal. Then the sorrow and guilt of abandoning him for fear.
“Chanu,” Claire whispers into her comforter. And ponders the figure of a man her father was and wanted for her. Negating the new man of this brave new world she and he inhabited for all her formative years. The years that formed her sense of beauty and manhood.
“Chanu!” Claire shouts into the dark, tempest-wrought air. And it's a prayer for love and a petition for forgiveness and a plea for rescue.
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