By Annabel Candy
We met at sunset in the south of France. My breath stilled as he sat down on the swing next to me.
His dark , Mediterranean eyes and shy smile won me over but, with his red hair and freckled face, he didn’t look French.
“Bonsoir,” he said.
“Bonsoir,” I repeated, surprised at first then, happy and keen to practice my school girl french, I continued,
“Comment tu t’appelles?”
“David,” he replied, emphasizing and stretching out the last vowel.
“Daveeed.” I breathed, smiling back.
“Et toi?”
“Je m’appelle Annabel,” I answered, the well practiced rhyme tripping off my tongue.
We spoke more. I couldn’t say much or understand... More...
