Read The Pleasure of M for Free Online Page B

  things
 
resonant
  of
  what
  we
  share.
  You
  move
  me.
  This
  morning,
  you
  stood
  in
  this
  open
 
temple
  of
  the
  sun,
  in
  full
  priestly
  dress
  and
  I
  stood
  behind
  you,
  basking
  in
  your
 
shadow.
 My
 soul
 sensing
 solace,
 my
 serene
 face
 softly
 seeking
 your
 scent
 in
 you
 hair.
 
Then
 you
 came
 up
 so
 that
 I
 could
 see
 you
 in
 full,
 gold
 and
 gems
 gently
 glowing
 on
 
your
 skin,
 your
 breath
 slowly
 wafting
 towards
 me
 like
 the
 breath
 of
 the
 ocean,
 your
 
breasts
 rising
 and
 falling
 with
 each
 wave.
 And
 though
 each
 wave
 brings
 you
 closer
 
to
 me,
 with
 each
 my
 body
 aches.
 You
 move
 me.
 
    Yours
 truly,
 
Michel”
 
    Far
 from
 conflicting
 thoughts
 of
 any
 kind,
 Michel
 was
 happy.
 Never
 had
 he
 written
 
any
 such
 prose
 and
 the
 words
 flowed
 from
 him,
 gushing
 from
 a
 well
 that
 he
 had
 long
 
known
 was
 in
 him,
 but
 always
 repressed.
 There
 were
 occasional
 moments
 of
 shame,
 
usually
 just
 after
 sending
 a
 message,
 when
 he
 would
 suddenly
 think
 of
 himself
 as
 a
 
silly
 parading
 peacock
 pouring
 out
 pompous
 sesquipedalian
 drivel
 just
 because
 he
 
could,
 or
 one
 of
 those
 dreadfully
 ridiculous
 pigeons
 in
 heat
 puffing
 himself
 up
 while
 
running
  after
  a
  female.
  Her
  next
  message
  would
  erase
  any
  doubt
  and
  plunge
  him
 
back
  to
  his
  newfound
  little
  corner
  of
  bliss,
  and
  soon
  enough,
  shame
  had
  been
 
replaced
 by
 mild
 embarrassment
 brought
 about
 by
 her
 frequent
 reminders
 to
 him
 of
 
how
  different
  their
  backgrounds
  were.
  Undeniably
  her
  upbringing
  in
  rural
  Idaho
 
bore
  little
  resemblance
  to
  his
  passage
  through
  the
  elite
  institutions
  of
  the
  French
 
educational
  system.
  She
  was
  heir
  to
  a
  long
  line
  of
  potato
  farmers.
  He
  was
  a
  direct
 
descendant
  of
  the
  Marquis
  de
  Lafayette.
  But
  he
  knew
  that
  she
  used
  this
  as
  a
  mere
 
pawn
 on
 the
 chessboard
 of
 their
 conversations
 and
 that
 contemplating
 this
 did
 not
 
overwhelm
  her,
  only
  that
  it
  was
  an
  endless
  source
  of
  wonder
  for
  her
  that
  “a
  man
 
such
 as
 he”
 could
 be
 interested
 in
 her.
 In
 fact,
 he
 thought
 of
 her
 as
 one
 of
 the
 most
 
sophisticated
  people
  he
  knew,
  with
  one
  remarkable
  difference:
  her
  total
  lack
  of
 
conceit.
  It
  was
  in
  America
  that
  he
  had
  been
  introduced
  to
  the
  difference
  between
 
absence
 of
 conceit
 and
 naïveté.
 In
 the
 world
 he
 came
 from,
 that
 distinction
 had
 been
 
lost
 long
 ago.
 But
 from
 the
 first
 time
 he
 and
 Catherine
 spoke,
 he
 had
 felt
 a
 form
 of
 
magic
 operate.
 With
 her,
 he
 was
 completely
 open
 and
 honest,
 never
 feeling
 the
 need
 
to
  be
  careful
  when
  he
  spoke
  or
  wrote.
  He
  could
  have
  found
  it
  hard
  to
  believe,
  but
 
there
 were
 too
 many
 signs.
 He
 was
 not
 superstitious
 or
 spiritual
 in
 the
 least,
 but
 he
 
knew