They’re meeting in a town called Nevers, which, because we’re in France, is pronounced like a Norwegian saying no way. They’re living on a houseboat called Virtuous Attachment. They have fancy omelet dinners on a gratuitous waterbed. After a night meandering the cape, Virtuous Attachment is docked by morning like nothing happened but face masks and old movies. Like Margaret Fuller and a bowl of cherry tomatoes. We see right through it, bobbing one harbor over on a dinghy called Impressionable. In terms of see right though it, the seagulls are laughing again at my pareo. We take turns with opera glasses, strapped into the director’s chair like Hemingway after mahi. We take turns being Barbara Bel Geddes. Tonight’s special is red herring with a side of potatoes lyonaisse. One more seaweed boot and we have quorum. We’re running out of bigger bait. Meanwhile, my nubile New England pallor is the pink of clafoutis. Just because I’m the one pressing fingerprints into my own burnt chest doesn’t mean they’re not clues for something. You should try it, stop. Chad, meanwhile, grows further fulvous by the second, full stop. When he do the voodoo. When he clambers aboard deck, mint on his collar and grass stains on his cuff. The skinshine makes us squint. Not to mention those propitious little swim trunks. It looks like a hibiscus pattern. I knew his legs way back when. We’re going to make viewfinders for the apocalypse. We’re going to launch Platonic his and her fireworks to celebrate our three-week anniversary. From this point forward, everything will have been the future perfect tense. In this way, even talking about the future will have sounded deceptively nostalgic, like peeking out of the corner of your eyes while looking in the opposite direction. The ugly duckling’s first word was peep. I see you. Yes you (you’re adorable). Do you mind if we ask you some questions? Starting now, where will you have you been all my life?