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Message-ID: <30229asstr$989601002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "alancmcd" <alancmcd@lineone.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Favour Day (1/1) m/f, rom
Date: Fri, 11 May 2001 13:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Hello again. Again? Yes, I've been here before. But it's two or three
years. Hard to post from China.

Hope you enjoy this.



"For what is a man? What has he got

When he wears hats, and he cannot

Say the things he truly feels

But only the words of one who kneels?"


THE SEX PISTOLS - My Way

FAVOUR DAY by Alan C. McDermott

Things fall apart.

I don't know who said that, but it's true.

Things fall apart. All things. Health. Happiness. Love. Oh, yes,
certainly love. Because emotional commitment, like a washing machine,
has a built in obsolescence factor. You know that as well as I do. Even
though you may be in a position where, for the moment, you prefer to
believe otherwise. That's your choice, of course.

Look, view me as a cynic. View me as a sad case. I don't really care.
But things will fall apart, and one day you'll need the focus to deal
with that. The point of this story is to help you when they do.

And I'm not a cynic, as it happens, or a sad case. Oh, I was for a time,
after Lisa. For quite a time, actually. And I do believe that cynicism
can be a powerful tool, in the short term. When you're between better
things. Between one love and another, one pleasure and another. Between
one moment and another.

But, you see the good news is that even cynicism can't last forever.
Even cynicism falls apart. And new loves, new pleasures, new moments do
come. Unbidden, they come. Unsought, they come. Actively resisted, they
nonetheless still come. I learned this yesterday. Just yesterday. And I
won't forget.

********************

Do you know the city of Basel? Probably you don't, unless you're in the
chemical business. And it isn't vital in the absorption of this story
that you make a visit. But I'll tell you a little about the place in any
event, because as I write this story, it's my geographical base. And my
prison.

My prison? Well, more accurately, I've thought that it was. Now, I'm
starting to understand that there is truth in old wisdom, and that the
mind can imprison at least as competently as stone walls and iron bars.

Basel. Yes, I was telling you about Basel.

Right then.

Basel is an industrial community, home to a number of the most corpulent
chemical companies in the world. As such, it has a voracious appetite in
the international labour market, sourcing legions of Americans,
Canadians, Brits and Germans for well paid posts in those areas of the
companies which can't afford to be insular, such as marketing, legal,
technical and sales.

I'd joined Ciba-Geigy's Research and Development Department two years
previously, a month after losing Lisa. As a new challenge. As a
departure. As the start of a new life.

And you're right. Of course it didn't work. But you know as well as I do
that naivete often links arms with loss. And it did with me. Which I
suppose was just tough, as Yvette, the only girlfriend I've had in my
time in Switzerland often told me. Life's like that. Live with it. Live
with life.

Switzerland? Oh, sorry. Yes, for those cartographically challenged
amongst you, Basel is in Switzerland - although not, I hasten to add, in
the Switzerland familiar to ski fanatics, buyers of chocolate and avid
viewers of James Bond movies. From the streets of Basel, for one thing,
there isn't a mountain to be seen. For another, cuckoo clocks are pretty
damned hard to obtain. And snow is an infrequent visitor.

Tourists drive through. There's nothing special about the place, and in
evidence of that, western born residents like me do what western born
foreign residents do all over the world. We work, get drunk or sleep, as
the hour of the day requires. We follow the standard expatriate
lifestyle.

Oh, don't get me wrong. There's nothing awful about Basel either. It has
a rich history, and the Rhine runs broadly and impressively through its
centre. The city social calendar is full of odd, entertaining events,
and, as you might expect in Switzerland, the streets are clean. But in
general principle it's a city like any other city. Basel is Berlin, and
Basel is Liverpool, and Basel is Chicago. Like all cities, it's
unwelcoming to those brought up outside its sprawling borders.

Well, that's my experience at least.

********************

It took me a year to realise that taking the new job had probably been a
mistake. Although getting back with Lisa would have been an
impossibility even had I stayed in Manchester, I began to dwell upon the
fact that I at least had family in Manchester, and some friends too. In
Basel, there is a large and insular British community, but I'm sorry to
say that insularity does not necessarily breed emotional closeness.
We're a disparate group at the best of times, made up of professionals
and airport workers, family folk and single loners, washed and unwashed.
If you gel with one or two people, then you're lucky.

I hadn't been lucky, because I'm a dismal soul at the best of times, and
seekers of joy give me a wide berth. Yes, just tough. You don't have to
tell me.

Look, I don't exactly know what I'd expected from the move. Someone to
step into Lisa's shoes, you suggest? Well, perhaps. But if so, that
possibility would have been very much at the back of my mind. And just
as well that it was, because opportunities here are few and far between.
At work, the majority of the female staff is Swiss and married or Swiss
and xenophobic. And socially, well, suffice it to say that I couldn't
have afforded the company of any British or American woman who was
footloose and fancy free in Basel, even if I could have attracted one
such. The bar bill would have been too high.

For the most part, then, I've been a female free zone recently. Except,
of course, for Yvette. Yes, keep up. I've already mentioned Yvette. Who
was definitely a female of our species.

But a valid romantic relationship?

Well, no. Not really.

********************

We'd met over the Christmas holidays, Yvette and I, as a result of my
choosing to pull on my best hair shirt by not going back to England for
the festive season. Our paths had crossed because at the time she was
waitressing in a caf, on the river, a caf, where I ended up after a
heavy, moribund drinking session on Christmas Eve.

She was Belgian, six years older than me, and was more obviously
battered by disappointment than any woman I'd ever met.

Consequently, she was none too fussy.

Consequently, we clicked, desultorily.

A consequence is when one thing leads to another. Which, on and ever on
through that long night and longer Christmas, it did.

********************

She invited me to her pleasant flat on Strassburgeralle, about a mile
from the city centre. I spent Christmas Day there, and we to be fair we
were temporarily well matched, not least because she too had cast
herself adrift. Scrooge and Scroogette, we ignored festivity for
carnality, but there was no magic in the practice of that, for her or
for me. Looking back, it was as though sex was our way of telling the
world, as individuals rather than as a couple, to go stuff itself.

The periods in-between copulation were punctuated by little of value -
forced caresses, faked intimacy, arid conversation. Occasional moments
of shared self-pity.

By Boxing Day, she'd wanted me to move in. That was an awful prospect,
and I couldn't seriously consider it, but I was too cowardly to cut the
thin string that bound her to me, convincing myself that if I did that
I'd be no better than Lisa. Also, I romanticised my situation,
pathetically, deciding that I couldn't hurt Yvette because she had been
so benign, and because (I supposed this somewhat uncertainly) she was
starting to depend on me.

We danced around one another for another day or two, but her general
gloom quickly headed south towards depression, and the anger I'd seen
crouching sneakily behind her eyes found the courage to start to express
itself.

And so I compromised. With a pusillanimous flourish, I moved in, but
simultaneously I made secret arrangements to maintain the lease on my
own flat.

********************

We lasted a week. After which she threw me out, which was exactly what
I'd wanted to happen. My lack of understanding of the needs of a serious
relationship was, she said, at the root of the failure, and that
accusation was the wedge she used to lever me out. But we both knew that
there were other tools lying unemployed in the debris around us. Other
fights were left unfought, and motives were left unquestioned.

Relieved, I returned home, feeling only a vague resentment, a resentment
which I suppose stemmed from the fact that she could have been kinder.
But I comforted myself with my mantra of the time. Women, I had come to
believe, were strangers to kindness, were harsher and more professional
in their decision making than a prison governor.

I lolled in my misery, bathed lazily in the new betrayal, easily
ignoring the fact that I had actively sought it.

For a week or two, I was more conscious than ever of that prison of skin
and bone.

********************

Some of you may be a little confused about my state of mind? Why was I
so damned depressed? Over nothing worse than lost love. Sad bastard. Not
the end of the world.

I'll try to explain.

The colour had drained out of my life when Lisa left, and at first I
hadn't wanted to even try to get over it. Of course, the longer that
lack of heart and soul and courage and energy went on, the more it
became a way of being, a destructive habit. I fed on mental reruns of
the past, and they weren't very nourishing.

In the end, there was only one possible destination for the road I'd
taken, and that was a prescription for antidepressants. I reached that
destination. And I took the tablets willingly, because doing so seemed
somehow to relieve me of the responsibility for changing the way I felt.

I think, though, that I took them ineffectively.

I found a new road yesterday, and neither chemical intervention nor
stirring act of will was the signpost. Arguably, some greater power
provided. Arguably, I was in the right place in someone else's time.

********************

Basel stands at Switzerland's crown, bordering both Germany and France.
The French border belongs to the Alsace region, which I mention because
it's in Alsace that the events I wish to describe occurred.

I have taken, since my move to Europe, to walking, and the borderlands
were the obvious choice for me. I'd lived in Alsace for six months prior
to attending university, and knew that area particularly well. I did my
shopping in France too, and quite a bit of my eating, always alone,
often returning to Basel quite late in the evening. But it was the
walking that I most enjoyed.

At first I visited the towns, particularly nearby Mulhouse, but one day,
a little more open to external stimulation than usual, I decided that a
walk in the hills would be a good way to spend an otherwise empty few
hours.

Taking a city tram from Basel as far as its terminus at the city limits,
I followed the road on foot. After a time, the road became a farm track,
and soon the farm track petered out into woods, which in turn opened out
onto broad sloping grasslands.

On that first walk, I'd merely acknowledged the beauty of my
surroundings as a background, had registered rather than enjoyed.
Obsession with what might have been, back in England, had still consumed
me entirely.

But I found myself tracing a similar route every weekend, and gradually
I came to realise that the walking was no longer to ensure peace in my
isolation, but was done for pleasure.

If you aren't fortunate enough to know, then it's hard to describe the
way that nature can calm the soul, especially when you can afford the
time for total immersion. So I won't try. I'll simply tell you that week
after week, I wandered the woods and fields and hills, investigating the
tiny wine making villages which dot the landscape in that part of
Alsace, visiting the tiny restaurants for bread and a beer. I had my
solitude, but I was adding value to it. Looked at in a Wordsworthian
way, I suppose I fell in love again, but this time my lover was bound to
me, was not free to reject me.

Ever that romantic, I took to calling my weekends grace and favour days.
If you haven't heard that old expression, it basically refers to times
when there are no duties to perform, when a human being, for a brief
time, is entirely relieved of stress. I know, I know. It all sounds too
self-absorbed. But I was too self-absorbed. So it fits, doesn't it?

And if I tell you that there were even periods of an hour or more on
these jaunts when Lisa didn't cross my mind, when, released from that
burden too, I often found myself thinking that I would refuse to return
to the real world, that I'd walk these routes forever, then you might
understand. At the core of my black mood was, I think, the wish to live
in a perfect, different world, in a place where my past didn't exist and
my future wasn't important. I wanted, bleakly put, to be part of
something greater than I, with no discernible independent existence did.



Now, that's all changed. Now I know now those months, becalming as they
were, held out no promise of a long-term answer for me. In the end,
whether the events of yesterday had occurred or not, I would have needed
to find something new or give up entirely. Do or die, in short. Sink or
swim.

So in truth those Alsatian wanderings were never any more than a
sabbatical. Louise, thankfully, taught me that.

Louise?

Yes.

Let me explain.

********************

Yesterday, I was meandering through the hills as usual, about fifteen
miles west of Mulhouse. In the early afternoon, the sun was blazing heat
out of a clear sky, and noise had deserted the world. No insects buzzed
and no birds chattered. Cows went silently about their chewing.

I hadn't seen another human being in over two hours.

I was fifty yards short of the lip of the hill when she came over it,
the unexpectedness of her appearance stopping me dead in my tracks, the
unexpectedness of mine bringing her to a halt also.

It took me a moment, but I realised that she might be a little scared of
me. We were not, after all, approaching one another on a crowded street.
So, embarrassed and anxious to reassure, I transmitted her a sheepish
grin, which she seemed to find reassuring. We both then began those
awkward manoeuvres which people use to put an imaginary dividing line in
place, to enable them to pass one another without the need for speech or
further acknowledgement.

Well, we almost achieved that intent. Would have done. Had she not lost
her footing on the slippery grass.

I wasn't surprised. It had been raining quite heavily mid morning, and
the ground still held a light sheen of wetness. Added to this, the
gradient was steep.

Until she slid, I hadn't noticed that she was carrying a basket. Now I
did, because the basket jerked, flinging some of its contents, all
bottles, into the air. The bottles hit the slope before she did.
Unbroken, three of them started to roll down the slope towards me. I
reacted quickly enough to impress myself and quickly enough to help,
stopping the leading bottle with my right foot, then dropping to block
the progress of the other two with both hands.

As I steadied myself, I heard her laughter. It was a wonderful,
uplifting sound, and I hadn't heard it in a very long time. Laughter,
uncomplicated and unrestrained, encouraged not by cruelty or hidden
agenda but by honest amusement. I resented it nonetheless, mean spirited
man that I am, and looked up from my prone position with a frown,
dignity assailed. But when I saw that she was laughing as much at her
own predicament as mine, I couldn't help but transform the frown into a
grin.

She had landed on her bottom, legs akimbo, and her long red ringlets of
hair had flopped forward, vaulting the crown of her head to hide her
eyes. The basket was upended in her lap, and one of her bottles had
chosen not to roll but rather to empty its contents into her pinafore,
resulting in a spreading red stain and a sharp vinegary smell. As a side
issue, the smell convinced me that if she was as I suspected carrying
wine, the vintage definitely fell into the "beware" category.

Pinafore, you enquire? Do I really mean pinafore?

Well, yes. And I know that's probably confusing. To be fair, it confused
me too, because I know as well as you do that even in rural France, a
pinafore isn't really considered to be a young girl's garment. That
assessment was one, though, which could equally be applied to the rest
of her clothing, in particular her dress, a simple white cotton garment
which a decent seamstress could have knocked up from basic material in
an hour or less. As for the black boots visible beneath the hem of that
dress now that its wearer was effectively spreadeagled, they were chunky
enough to suit a coal miner and were tied not with laces but rather with
string.

I manoeuvred the three bottles I'd salvaged into a securer position,
vertical against the gradient, and went to help the damsel in distress.

She was still laughing when I offered her my hand, which she took, still
laughing when I hoisted her gently to her feet.

She brushed herself off, not making too good a job of it. Then she
pushed back her hair and looked at me.

I was instantly smitten. I had never seen such a pretty girl in all my
life. Even Lisa wouldn't have come close, although Lisa perhaps never
was a girl, rather a woman before her time. That had been one of our
many problems, one of the few that I couldn't blame on myself.

"I'm Louise", the young lady said formally, the polite introduction
escaping from behind a broad smile and involving a slight and
anachronistic curtsey.

"Martin", I replied, responding to her formality by extending my hand
again, this time for her to shake it. Well, I couldn't help myself. The
situation was so absurd.

She took my fingers gently between hers. Her touch was pleasantly cool,
and she seemed to linger over the contact.

I realised that she was looking up at me from beneath her eyelids. Okay,
I'm tall, but not that tall. This was the sort of "I'm so shy" gaze that
I'd only seen before in movies. It was an attractive gesture, and
teasing, but it wasn't manipulative. It seemed honest.

It also encouraged eye contact, allowing me to study her face with some
frankness without appearing to be rude.

Her hair was still a mess, even though she'd swept it back where it
belonged. This made her seem somewhat in disarray, as though she's spent
the last hour or so lying in a haystack. I guessed that in the correct
light those complex ringlets might make her look rather sultry and
mysterious, a gypsy masquerade, but at the moment they were merely
comical.

Her eyes, though. Ah, her eyes. Well, suffice it to say that no disorder
elsewhere could take away from their limpid beauty. The blue of calm,
deep water, they were frank and uncomplicated. The wide and friendly
eyes were a window to an uncomplicated and relatively happy human being,
of that I had no doubt, but they showed also in their depth the
substance of her, the unarguable reality of her soul.

The rest, as they don't say, was mystery. A broad, expressive, naturally
red mouth, which I guessed, could pout as well as smile when it needed
to. A small, upturned nose. A pink, scrubbed, country complexion. A face
halfway between the round and the oval, with sculptured curves and high
cheekbones. Not a trace of lipstick or make-up.

I guessed her age at nineteen, although she might have been as young as
seventeen. Her figure was full; a fact emphasised because her dress was
perhaps half a size too small. The plainly functional garment delivered
the girl an almost certainly unsought sexiness by virtue of the fact
that it had not been discarded two years previously, when it first no
doubt started to tug. Unusually lewdly for me, and dishonourably in
light of her apparent poverty, I remember thinking how fortunate I was
that her funds hadn't run to a replacement before I met her. But I'm not
too ashamed, even looking back now. If you'd seen such a lovely body
thus restrained, I think you'd have understood.

Let me be clear, though. Despite the strain, she wasn't plump. Far from
it, in fact. Her bare arms were slim, and although it was difficult to
estimate, her waist seemed relatively slight too. And her breasts and
rear were merely ample. Her ankles, which I had seen when she fell, were
skinny. She was just a girl.

Well, yes, okay.

And Greenland was just a little cool.

Enough, I told myself. Enough.

It was a wrench to break off my scrutiny, but I could sense that I was
approaching the line. So to give myself something better to do, I bent
to pick up the three bottles at her feet, including the leaking one. On
this, I secured the loosened stopper. About a third of the contents had
gone. I put the bottles into her basket, which she had left on the
grass, and then I walked down the hill to collect the others, which I
also put into the basket.

"Perhaps I should carry it for you", I teased. "You seem a little unsafe
today". My voice sounded odd, a little strained.

She nodded gravely, sharing the joke. "You're gallant", she observed.

"Sometimes", I agreed. "Although I suppose how gallant I am depends upon
how far you're walking".

"Ah, conditionally gallant", she noted. "Just my luck".

I smiled. "A long way, then?", I interpreted.

I didn't expect her to agree to company. Naturally, it hadn't been a
serious suggestion. She didn't know me, and maximum caution was only to
be expected.

And at first, she didn't agree. "So you think I'm incapable, then, of
carrying my own packages?", she ragged.

Her voice was light, girlish. I enjoyed the tones of it, the rise and
fall of it. "So far", I replied easily, "there was not much evidence
that you can".

She smiled. A wide smile. As open as her eyes. "Wrong tense", she said.
"Is not. Is not much evidence. You speak my language very well. But you
weren't born here, were you?"

"No, I wasn't", I confirmed. "But thanks for the compliment. I try my
best".

"You succeed", she stated. "And yes, kind sir, you can carry my bottles,
while I concentrate on my misbehaving feet. I'm visiting a farm in the
valley. It's less than two kilometres away. So you offer me perhaps half
an hour of your time".

"Fine", I said, a little surprised. Then an odd thought occurred to me,
which I wanted to express. "You remind me of Little Red Riding Hood", I
told her.

She cocked her head to one side like a bird. Her expression was playful
as she pointed out, "I'm not wearing a hood".

"Or anything red", I agreed. "But nevertheless, you do. It's the basket,
I suppose".

"And would you, by any chance", she wondered disrespectfully, "happen to
be the Big Bad Wolf?"

The flirtation shocked me. "No", I assured her quickly. "I'm a harmless
beast".

"No man is harmless", she disagreed. "Or so my mother tells me".

"In your company", I supposed, "I would imagine most men are safe.
Careful".

She raised a querulous eyebrow. "Of my fist?", she construed, and
clearly didn't like the construction.

"No", I explained. "Of your disapproval".

She nodded, satisfied. "Charmer", she accused.

I bent to pick up the basket, which turned out to be heavier than it
appeared. Disconcertingly, she immediately linked my unburdened arm. We
started off back down the hill, in the direction from which I had come.

********************

The walking was pleasant. Company, I think, always improves exercise,
but welcome company puts the notion that exercise is hard work in the
back of the mind.

As we walked, Louise told me a little about herself, including the fact
that she was engaged to a young man in the next village to her own, the
wedding being six months away. She was looking forward to the day, she
said, and she loved the lucky stiff. He worked in his father's caf,, but
one day, Louise assured me, the caf, would be his. Life would be a
struggle at first, they both acknowledged that, but the newlyweds would
happily ride over that patch. It soon became clear to me that the future
for Louise was a broad river, sparkling in the sun, stretching away
further than she could see.

"Does he love you?", I asked her at one point.

"Of course", she replied with a pout. "Aren't I loveable?"

"Yes", I confirmed. "But that's not always enough. If he loves you, and
you love him, then you're very fortunate".

I regretted the words immediately, knowing that they'd carried an
inference of sourness, and guessing that she'd notice. She did, and her
disposition darkened a little. Indeed, for a few moments she didn't
speak, although she stole occasional disturbed glances in my direction.

I expected the question before it came. "You lost someone?"

"Lost, left, whatever", I answered vaguely. "Look, sorry. I shouldn't
have darkened the mood. Let's talk about your lad. What's his name?"

"Armand", she advised. "And no, I don't want to talk about him. Let's
talk about you. In particular, about why you're so damaged".

Her concern embarrassed me, but her perception was scary. "I'm not
damaged any more", I replied after a pause, wanting to choose my words
carefully, wanting to rescue her earlier mood. "I was two years ago. But
not now. Two years is a long time".

"Long, and short too", she said, chiming the words as though they were
the title of a song. "Were you in love, then? Once?"

"Yes". The question had been too blunt to permit a lie.

"As I love Armand?", she persisted. "As much as that?"

"It's not a good subject", I told her firmly. "Not for a sunny day. And
not for someone as young as you, thinking about the beginnings of things
not the ends of them".

"Just as much, then", she concluded. "I see. And do you love her still?"

I didn't answer. She didn't press. We walked on quietly.

The ground had levelled out by now, and was dappled by shadow from
nearby trees. It was the best time of the day, and I felt content, in
this place, in the company of this girl. It was difficult to decide
which was the more delightful.

 From time to time I looked at her. I noticed the profusion of freckles
on her cheeks for the first time, her skin having cooled in the shade,
and became fascinated by them.

Finally, she caught me in my furtive observation. Her unexpected
reaction was a broad smile. Her teeth were small and white.

"Not far now", she promised.

"I'm in no rush", I assured her. "I'm enjoying the day. And the company.
Particularly the company".

"As am I", she agreed, and it seemed that she meant it.

********************

Just as Louise had claimed, we were almost at our destination. At the
end of a stand of trees, there was a slight dip, and at the bottom of
that dip stood a white stone building. It reminded me of a farmhouse,
but there were no farm animals to be seen in the immediate vicinity.
There was no fence, and no gate.

Louise stopped about fifty yards short of the house, in view of the side
wall but not the front door. Presumably she didn't want the occupants to
see her with me, and I understood that. Why should she have to satisfy
the curiosity of others? The fact that she had taken a stroll with a
stranger was no-one's business but hers.

"Will you wait?", she asked. "I'll only be five minutes".

It seemed important to her that I did. So I nodded. "Yes. Sure. I'll see
you on your way back, then I'll head for home. It's getting late, I
suppose".

"Rubbish", she disagreed. "It's only early".

I didn't know quite what she meant by that remark, whether actually she
meant anything by it. So I disengaged from her arm, missing the slight
pressure almost before it had gone, and handed her the basket. She did
her odd curtsey thing again, and set off to make her delivery. I watched
her until she disappeared behind the stonework, and I'm ashamed to say
that the swaying of her hips, so tightly trapped in that wonderful old
dress, was my primary focus.

She was longer than five minutes. She took almost twenty. By the time
she returned, basketless, I was considering leaving. There was, after
all, no apparent reason to stay other than my promise, and I suspected
that she might have got into some interesting conversation or other and
had forgotten all about me. Whether that was so or not, it was highly
unlikely that she'd be overly distressed if she emerged to find me gone.

I'd wandered back a little way to the slope, where I could sit
cross-legged, and my thoughts, for some unaccountable reason, had
started to drift back to Yvette. What was she doing now, I wondered? Did
she remember any moment from our time together fondly? Should I call
her, meet with her perhaps? Had I moved on enough to make a better stab
at things? It would be settling for a life less glittering than some I
had once been able to imagine, but it might be the most settled and
rewarding existence I could reasonably aim for. Was that the way to go?
To settle? To take the best that might be available, and be thankful for
it?

So lost was I in this reverie that I didn't see Louise until she was a
few feet away. I stood to welcome her, and it was hard to avoid the
conclusion that she was pleased to see me. She was animated, gesturing
for me to be on my feet. Places to go, she seemed to be telling me.
Time's a wasting. It was all very confusing.

"Finished at long last", she announced. "I didn't know whether you'd
still be here".

"A lady asked me to wait", I responded chivalrously, "so I waited".

She seemed to feel a need to explain, and I let her, although for me,
there wasn't an issue. "I was helping Mr. Bresson with his bed", she
said. "When summer's here, he likes to move it close to the window, but
he's on his own now, and he doesn't get many visitors. He can't lift the
thing himself, or even push it. So he asked if I'd help".

"You should have called me", I told her. "It sounds like a heavy job".

"I'm big and strong", she assured me, playful and haughty at the same
time.

"You may well be", I allowed, "but from the sound of it Mr. Bresson
isn't".

"Oh, I only let him think he was helping", she enlightened me. "Just for
his peace of mind".

"You should have called me", I repeated, "nonetheless".

She shrugged. "Mr. Bresson wouldn't have understood", she stated simply.

I chuckled. I couldn't help it. "Louise, I'm probably ten years older
than you", I advised her. "Mr. Bresson would probably have thought I was
your long lost uncle".

"You're an attractive man", she disputed. "Mr. Bresson may be old, but
he isn't senile".

I tried to ignore the flattering remark, but felt an unaccustomed flush
as I pointed out, "I'm not senile either. But I think that anyone with a
reasonable view on these things would find it obvious that I'm far too
old for you".

She placed her hands on her hips. A mock challenging posture. "If that's
what you think", she said, "then why did you offer to walk with me?"

I didn't know quite how to answer that. Attractive as she was, my
motives had been innocent. On the selfish side, I'd found a companion
for a lovely afternoon. On the unselfish side, she clearly had been
struggling with her basket. But would I, have wondered, have given such
assistance to a curmudgeonly old man? Well, probably not. But what did
that imply?

Certainly not that I was lecherous, and that seemed to be Louise's
interpretation. I felt justified in sulking for a moment. Which I did.
Then I went for self-pity, just to make her feel bad. "Perhaps I should
be getting back", I suggested. "This is getting a little uncomfortable,
and I've had a good day. I don't want us to fall out".

She watched me. Read me. Completely. And played the same game, much more
skilfully than I had. "You were just being a gentleman", she said in an
"I've just realised" tone. "Look, I'm sorry, Martin. I was just being
playful. I didn't mean to challenge your honour. And I was being silly,
too. I thought you found me attractive".

I had to admire the switch. And acknowledge it. "Of course I find you
attractive", I said. "What man wouldn't? But you do understand what I
was saying. I'm sure you do".

She nodded gravely, but the gravity was defeated by the twinkle of
triumph in her eyes. "Shall we walk?", she suggested.

I surrendered. The dispute was over without a victor, and extending it
would have been churlish. "Walk where?", I asked. "Towards home? For
you, I mean".

"Anywhere", she said with careful imprecision. "Wherever the fancy takes
us, I suppose. I don't have to be home for a couple of hours. How about
you?"

Well, I thought, why not? It was a more attractive prospect than
anything else I might have spent the rest of the day on. "I don't have
to be home for anyone or anything", I answered. "My time's my own".

"That's settled, then", she judged, and we strolled off in the general
direction of the woods. If truth be told, it was Louise's chosen general
direction, but it doubtless met the definition of "anywhere".

********************

Relieved of her burden, Louise seemed relieved in spirit too. Job done,
and young at heart. I remembered that as a powerful combination. I
noticed that she'd left the basket as well as the bottles, and pointed
this out in case the abandonment was an accident. It wasn't.

"I'll pick it up when I'm here next week", she said. "I have to bring
the empty bottles back anyway, after Mr. Bresson's emptied them into a
cask. He does that every year, you know. I never understand why".

I shrugged. "People have ways", I explained wisely, then added the
afterthought, "Anyway, as long as you got a fair price, what does it
matter?"

Her brow furrowed. "A fair price? I don't understand."

"For the wine", I explained.

Understanding dawned visibly in the set of Louise's face. Understanding
with a trace of surprise. "I wasn't selling the wine", she said. "It was
a favour".

"A favour". I struggled with the concept. "You mean a gift. Now I see.
It's Mr. Bresson's birthday".

Louise shook her head vigorously. "A favour", she stressed. "For Favour
Day. Not a gift. And as for selling, well, no money changes hands on
Favour Day. All shops close". She gave me an odd look "Do things work
differently in your country? Surely not?"

"I suppose they must", I allowed, suspecting a local custom or festival.
"I've never heard of Favour Day".

Louise stopped walking. Her brow furrowed, a pretty gesture because it
made her nose wrinkle at the same time. "How sad", she judged. "No,
really. I mean it. How sad. Oh, you miss so much".

"Maybe", I granted, mindful that many annual celebrations in this part
of the world were well worth getting involved in.

"Maybe?", Louise scoffed. "Try definitely. Favour Day's the highlight of
the year. I just can't believe this"

"I only live here, remember", I reminded her. "I wasn't born here".

She was exasperated. "I can't believe", she insisted, "there's even the
smallest village, anywhere in the world, that doesn't celebrate Favour
Day".

"Try whole countries", I suggested.

She scowled petulantly. "Whatever you say".

I tried to be diplomatic. "Look, I'm just an ignorant foreigner. Humour
me. Tell me about it".

"About Favour Day?", she presumed.

I nodded. "What happens exactly? Everyone gives their friends and family
presents? Is that it?""

"Not so much presents", she qualified, "as gifts".

The distinction seemed rather elegant to me then. It isn't now. But
then, I left my confusion unspoken, wary of irritating her further.
Instead, I said, "I'm not a man for gifts. I don't need gifts. I have
everything I need".

"There's always something", she disagreed. "I haven't known you long,
Martin, but with you there are many things. I wouldn't know where to
start".

It was an odd response. I didn't read it as sympathy, and was grateful
for that, but there was no doubt that she was expressing concern. "I've
already told you", I said, taking a guess, "that Lisa's a long way in
the past. And even if she wasn't, a few bottles of wine wouldn't help
me. Well, I suppose they might for a day or two, if I just carried on
drinking them".

The last was intended as a joke, but Louise didn't smile. "You still
haven't got it", she lectured mildly. "Today is about favours, not
presents. Yes, the favour might be a present, like the bottles of wine
for Mr. Bresson. But it could be anything. A new story learned for a
little boy. Time in the fresh air for someone bedridden. The resolution
of an old argument. A kind word to an unpleasant acquaintance. So yes, I
agree with you, Martin. A present is not the favour you most need. It's
something else entirely".

"I don't think I know anyone who'd feel inclined to do me any favours",
I said. "Or who knows me well enough. I'd have thought that you had to
know someone very well to decide what they need".

"There's a lot of thought before the day", Louise conceded. "But you'd
be surprised how easy it is most of the time".

By now we were under the cover of the trees. The dappling effect on the
grass beneath our feet was quite spectacular, and the cooler air was
welcome. There was a path, of sorts, down which, despite the fact that
we were side by side, Louise was effectively leading me.

She linked my arm again. It was the first time that she had done so
since she delivered her package, and I took it as a sign of forgiveness
for my earlier awkwardness.

"How do you decide who you do favours for?", I wondered idly. "I mean,
you can't be extra specially nice to everyone in your village, can you?
Not on the same day. Do you decide in advance? Make up a list? This year
it'll be these five people. That sort of thing".

"In a way, yes", she confirmed. "I decided on the wine weeks ago, for
example. But that's not all there is to it. You do try to be especially
nice through the day. If you can think of a favour, something to make
someone else happy, then you do it".

"And if it costs you something", I guessed, "then so much the better".

She sighed. "I can see how Favour Day might be hard to grasp if you're
new to it", she said exasperatedly, "but I think you're being
deliberately dumb. It's not about martyrdom either. Some favours have a
cost, I admit. Money. Pride. But never more than you're prepared to
lose".

She strengthened her grip on my arm, steered me onto a smaller path
which forked off the main route to the left. The trees were closer to us
now, and there was moisture in the air. I began to grow a little
concerned about getting lost, but decided to trust that Louise had a
good enough familiarity with the area in which she lived.

"Give me a real example", I requested. "Other than the wine. If I wanted
to perform a favour for you on Favour Day, what would it be?"

Louise flushed slightly, a perfect and pure pinkness that stole into her
neck and cheeks. "The favour I seek", she replied after a long pause,
"wouldn't be yours to give".

I chuckled. "But Armand", I teased. "He might be able to help".

She lowered her eyes. "Yes", she said quietly. "He might".

"Then I hope he has his wits about him this evening", I encouraged her.
"So. A different example, then. If you were to do a favour for me, what
would it be?"

She stopped walking, and that took me by surprise. I was a step further
on before I realised, and I turned to face her. The flush had gone now,
and there was an odd confidence in her bearing. It was the stance of a
soldier going into battle, knowing that the odds were in his favour.

"Isn't that why we're here?", she said.

********************

The woods were noisy. Birds chirruped. Leaves rustled in the slight
breeze. Behind Louise, I could make out the rise of the hill upon which
our paths had crossed, the slope obscured for the most part, but the
summit clearly outlined under a lowering sun.

It was thirty seconds at least since she'd spoken. She stood, watching
me candidly, waiting for me to say something. But I couldn't imagine
what that something might be. Nor could I conceive of the nature of the
favour that she stood ready to grant. I was curious, intrigued even, but
I was uncomfortable too, and in the end the discomfort won out. I wanted
no obligations created here, however minor they might be. I was not,
yesterday and for years before yesterday, a keen collector of
obligations.

"I thought we were just walking", I said, a little defensively.

"To here", she answered easily. "We were walking to here".

"There's nothing you have, Louise", I said, "that I could conceivably
need. I don't mean to be rude, but as I said before, you don't really kn
ow me".

"You're wrong", she declared. "I guarantee it".

"I'm not comfortable with this", I warned.

She retained her poise. "What can you possibly lose?", she asked.

It was a fair question. And I was being, as usual, churlish. Favour Day,
Louise had already told me, was the most meaningful day of the year for
her. To deny her would sour that day. I believed myself to be capable of
meanness, when a situation demanded it, and sometimes when it didn't.
But this wasn't a time for meanness.

"Nothing", I said. "I'm sorry. Whatever it is, wine or kind words, your
favour's welcome. Whenever you're ready".

She came to stand in front of me. No more than twelve inches separate
her. I could feel the light breeze of her breath, and there was a hint
of wine in it, a pleasant sweetness. Perhaps she had taken a glass with
Mr. Bresson.

I waited. Confused. Still concerned. And, unaccountably, a little
excited.

Then, with such grace that the movement seemed to be liquid, seemed to
flow, she lowered herself to her knees.

I looked down, startled. Her thick, rich hair curtained her eyes, as
though promising that soon there would be a show in them. Her broad lips
seemed moist, oh, ever so moist, even though I had not seen her lick
them.

"What on earth are you intending to do?", I asked, a quaver sneaking
into the question. "Say a prayer for me?"

"No", she replied. "Something else".

And her hands moved to my belt.

I should have stopped her. Yes, I know. At the very least, I should have
objected. And why didn't I?

You know why. You know very well why.

Wasn't it Robert Burns who said that a man's a man for all that? I
paraphrase, perhaps, and I'm sure he had a different meaning in mind.
But you get the point. The moment she touched me, not there, but in the
region of there, I felt the monster stir. I'm ready, he called. Ready
ready ready. Always ready. She's not really too young, or if she is then
forget that for now. She's not fully spoken for, or if she is then
forget that for now.

Conscience fought back, of course. But that sort of fight takes a while,
and continuous diversion of attention doesn't help. It seemed that
Louise was having trouble with the belt fastening, and my scurrilous
inner voice was telling me not to prevent but to help. Pull your stomach
in, man. Can't you see that the poor girl's struggling?

In the end, I didn't do either thing. Prevent or help. In the end, I
allowed my indecision to rule, knowing, yes of course, that indecision
was a decision in itself, that indecision was a permission whilst not a
clear acceptance of complicity. And in the end, Louise worked the puzzle
out, and I felt a shamed but powerful thrill as the pressure along the
front of my pants eased. Then, shame turning to mortification, I sensed
the bulge push forward in my jockey shorts. I was already semi-erect.
The very thought of the might be, the notion of the warmth and wetness
of her mouth, had been more than enough to evoke a substantial response.

She had no difficulty with the button, but opened it slowly, as though
seeking the reward of a sharp intake of breath. I strove not to grant
that, staring fixedly at the dark shadow of the hill, hunching into the
gaps between the trees. And why did I look away? Well, I didn't know
then, but I do now. I was nervous. Nervous that if I looked down, she'd
catch my eye and see my unprincipled eagerness. Nervous that if she did
catch my eye, then she'd stop.

It took her another moment to work out the zip. But eventually, down it
slid, and my erection, now at three-quarter mast, strained with a
luscious tautness against the cotton which restrained it.

I expected her to reach inside the undershorts, through the flap, and
steeled myself for the pleasure, but she didn't do that. Instead,
perhaps because of her obvious uncertainty of the intricacies of male
clothing, she lowered the waistband, then had to readjust, pulling it
high and out to manoeuvre the material past what I was sure would by now
appear to be a quite sensational bulge.

The release of tension made my engorged member spring up, flat to my
stomach. Instantly, Louise grasped it, fingers folding behind it, the
heel of her palm against the crown.

The sensation of her cool hand touching me in such an intimate place,
suddenly, forcefully, made me shudder with delight. I almost ejaculated,
there and then, almost squirted a hot white fountain into Louise's face,
splattering her eyes and nose and mouth. Perhaps the only thing that
saved me was an instinctive knowledge that she wouldn't have liked that
very much. Down and dirty wasn't her style. So I held on, rode the surge
of pleasure as best I could. But my knees felt weak, and I was so very
close. It was a simple fact that had she masturbated me even slightly,
had she moved the skin which she gripped even once, up and down, against
the hardness below, had she in fact done anything at all but keep the
hand motionless, then I simply couldn't have held on.

Perhaps she knew that. I didn't read her as experienced enough to judge
a man's quickening, but perhaps I was wrong. Was she simply waiting? Was
she teasing me?

Unable to resist the thrill any longer, I looked down.

I'm not small. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, and to my
recollection, none of my girlfriends have complained either. In length,
I suppose I'm average, but I make up for it in girth. So much so that
Louise's fingers and thumb didn't meet. I'd felt her try to make them do
so, and in response the blood had pulsed around the base of my engorged
stalk. By now, I was a stallion. As hard as I can ever remember being.
And now there was no voice but the voice of need. Or, more unkindly, the
voice of lust.

I watched her. Still, she didn't move the hand. She seemed to be staring
at the monster she had released. Perhaps in regret. I was self-absorbed
enough by now to hope not, but I couldn't see her expression because her
hair obscured her face, particularly her eyes. I wondered whether she
had initially been confident, whether she had done certain things for
her young man and her plan had been to do the same things for me, and
whether now she believed that the job was too big for her. The problem
was, I needed her to choose. I could have coped with dismissal, just, if
it happened right then. But I couldn't cope with waiting. To ask me to
do so, when the situation had developed so quickly and extraordinarily,
was unfair.

Then at last, she glanced up, and I saw her lovely smile. Looked into
her beautiful, shining eyes. She was confident. Confident enough that I
knew I'd overestimated the job, or underestimated her. And I remember
that I sighed with a wonderful expectation. Because I knew now. Knew
what was to come. Knew for certain. And I was disgracefully ready for
it.

And a second after I knew, she did it.

How do I describe what happened in a way that seems more than a
description of the anatomical combination? How do I explain what I felt
to see her give herself in that way, in that moment? Yes, you have the
right answer, of course. In a fluid, seamless motion, she took my cock
into her mouth. But what do those words say to you? What do they
express?

Very little, I suppose. You see the picture. The me that you have
created in your mind. The her. The stretching of lips, thinly, around
straining erection. Four momentarily closed eyes. The purple bulb,
disappearing.

And some of you may take it further. Some of you may imagine sensation
exploded, as it did, thrumming through testicles, whirling into
buttocks, knees shaking, hips lowering. Some of you may guess at the
sudden vortex of pressure and pleasure, the lovely heat, the luscious
wetness of a thick tongue as it curled beneath unfamiliar bulk, the
delicate tip of it then trailing along that bulk, slowly back, slowly
forward. And all that happened. Oh, I remember it so clearly. I remember
feeling my balls pull up, my gleans buck against the firm roof of her
mouth. I remember that, wonder of wonders, thrusting again as through
her lips were the entrance to a willing vagina, she took more of me, all
of me, burying me into her throat, so that I could sense the pulse of
that throat, and its cloying coating, consuming the stalk in entirety,
surrounding it. I remember being amazed at her skill for one so young,
remember noting that her teeth did not seem to have grazed me, that I
had sensed only lips and tongue and flesh.

Some of you will go that far, considering the evidence placed before
you. A jaded man. A girl far too young for him. Some of you may have
been a jaded man, in a circumstance which led to similar delight.

A circumstance, however, which could not have been the same. Let me
assure you of that.

I can only say that no experience in my life had prepared me for
yesterday. No sex, oddly, had ever been so pure. Why?

Well, because it was a favour. Not a gift, to show love or regard or
honour the receiver. Not a duty, as a wife or long term girlfriend might
perform. Not a gesture in the midst of lust, or a presentation of skills
to marvel at and enjoy. Merely a favour. Something needed and given. An
end in itself, intended without cost or price. And as such, there was
freedom to relax, to concentrate on what was happening rather than why
it was happening. For me, that translated as joy.

The whirl of wonderful heat and moisture and vigour forced me to close
my eyes again, and my lower body tensed. I was grinding against her now,
pushing the aching head of my erection back where it had felt most well
treated, into the cavern of her oesophagus. Pastel colours danced wildly
across the backs of my eyelids as I struggled, in the way that men do,
to take control, reaching for her head, trying to bond her, to make the
force mine to exert. But I was too tall to do any other than brush her
hair with my fingertips, and that was fine too. Indeed, it was more than
fine. It was right.

She had a rhythm now, pulling swiftly back, advancing slowly forward.
Never more than an inch of my cock was exposed to the evening air, so
always she sheltered the bulk of me. I was startled when I thought of it
afterwards that she had been able to do this, that she hadn't gagged at
any stage, or at least not until the end. But I didn't have any such
thoughts then. Then, I thought only of coming. Because I wanted, needed
to come. I also wanted the experience to last forever. It was a
thrilling dichotomy.

What is good sex? Have you ever asked yourself? What is it for you? For
anyone? Does it need to be wild? Or emotional? Tender, perhaps. Or
detached.

For me, sadly, it's probably the last of those. I didn't love Louise. I
would probably never see her again. Now that I couldn't see it, I found
it hard to frame her face in my mind. But I was wild, out of my mind
with the pleasure, which by now suffused my entire body, hunching my
back, tingling through my neck, warming my face, owning me.

I'd like to say that I lasted. I'd like to claim a strength of will,
which in turn might permit me to claim a guilt, a regret. But I didn't
last. Not five minutes. Not three. Not two.

Perhaps ninety seconds. From the moment her tongue first touched me,
down there, to the moment when she was constrained to swallow what came
from there.

Thirty seconds. Her hand cupped my testicles, ever so gently. I found
the strength to look down again, brushed her hair gently back from the
right hand side of her faith, and watched her taut lips slide back and
forth along my broad, red glistening shaft. Almost collapsed, knees all
but giving way as she lapped her tongue horizontally, criss-crossing the
sensitive blue vein.

Sixty seconds. I knew only tension. Building. Swelling in my brain, and
shoulders, and testicles. My cock felt like a steel bar, stiffening more
and yet more and impossibly more. But only that part of me was strong.
The rest was dissolving into welcoming weakness.

Eighty seconds.

Climax exploded into me, shocking me although I'd expected it just then,
searing my brain. Senses strained to accommodate a power of pleasure
previously unknown to them. I know that I shouted. I know that I was
finally able to grasp the back of her skull, holding at deepest
penetration, feeling the vibration thrumming in her bones as her tongue
continued to work what caresses it could. I know that my spine seemed to
fold in on itself, that my body seemed to turn to rubber. My legs were
shaking. It occurred to me that I'd never come in a standing position
before, and I wondered whether I'd collapse immediately afterwards.

Approaching ninety seconds.

Orgasm wasn't ever like this. It was sweet, and wonderful, yes, but
relatively short.

My body was racked. I still crushed her to me, couldn't have moved my
hands sufficiently to release her if I'd tried. And she wasn't
complaining. Or would I have heard her if she was? I kept thinking that
I'd reached the peak, but then there was a higher peak, and another.
Would my body disintegrate? Was all this a magnificent prelude to death?

My knees pushed forward, crushing into the softness of her breasts, and
in that instant the release came.

I ejaculated with real force, and hugely. Those male readers amongst you
will know how you can sense that. There seems to be too much fluid, or
the fluid is too thick and gelatinous, for the urethra to simply act as
a conduit. Rather it bulges, and the ecstasy is increased tenfold. It's
a rare thing, and the joy of it made me scream. I knew that I'd flooded
her throat, and indeed her mouth stopped moving for a moment and she
made a couple of odd, bird like choking sounds. I was about to withdraw
a little, give her room, but then, amazingly, she swallowed, and her
tongue was caressing me again, more firmly, more eagerly, celebrating
success.

I pulsed again, and then again, but she didn't lose control again. The
new surges, whilst just as voluminous as the first, were taken from me
with effortless gulps.

The force, the release, started to ebb. Louise moved back, releasing me
with a suddenness that filled me with melancholy, although her attention
did return just for a moment, to lick away some stray drops. The cool
evening air sent a chill into that part of me which had recently been so
wonderfully pleasured. I looked down, intending to fasten myself up, but
she was already doing that, her fingers nimble and quick.

She was smiling up at me. If there was satisfaction in that smile, and I
think that there was, it was the satisfaction of a job well done. A
favour competently performed.

There was no trace of my ejaculate on her face, around or between her
slightly parted lips. Every single drop had disappeared.

I knew that I needed to sit down, and I did so, with a thump. She moved
up to sit by me. We didn't touch.

The delicious throbbing in my balls and shaft seemed disinclined to
ease. I was still big down there, I knew, but I was also soft. An
unusual combination. I could feel the eye occasionally pulsing, knew
that this was sending tiny rivulets of semen oozing across the slippery,
scarlet head.

I was sated. Utterly. I had never felt so drained of pain and
frustration and trouble.

"Happy?", she asked.

I looked at her carefully for the first time since the unsought congress
had begun. Looked into her eyes.

Her equilibrium seemed entirely undisturbed, as though nothing had
happened between us. Nothing at all.

It was either an extremely complicated question, or a very easy one. I
answered it as though it was the latter. "Right at this moment", I told
her. "I have to say yes. And I have to say thank you".

"You don't have to thank me", she replied. "That isn't the way the day
works. I thought I'd explained".

"I understand, yes", I assured her. "You saw it is a favour. But I'm
confused. Why that? Why did I need that? Or rather, why did you think I
needed that?"

She smiled. "Oh, you did need it. And you'll know why soon enough. I
don't need to tell you anything. Just give it time, and you'll know".

After that, she lay back, and for a time, I listened to her breathing.
For a time, nothing was said. I took the opportunity to restore my state
of dress. Even then, the sensations hadn't entirely ceased.

At that time, I didn't even try to make sense of what had happened. I
knew that I felt lighter than usual, as though some pressure somewhere,
in my chest perhaps, or in my head, had been slightly relieved. It
seemed inconceivable that this odd encounter could have any long term
impact on my mental well being, and I expected the sensation to be short
lived.

But it's still with me today. I'll explain a little later why I think
that is.

Yesterday, though, its surprising arrival made me reckless. Head full of
recent memories of sensation and a determination on Louise's part which
seemed to speak of commitment, I found myself thinking that she and I
were perhaps meant to be together. That our meeting had not been an
accident.

I found myself forgetting Armand.

I found myself forgetting my age.

And I told her, "I could love you".

And I meant it. I couldn't help myself.

For a moment, the breathing I'd been listening to so carefully stopped.
Then she drew it in sharply, preparing, I realised later, to deal with a
problem which she had anticipated. "You have to distinguish, Martin",
she said. "We aren't lovers. I don't love you, and you mustn't love me.
This was a favour for Favour Day. If you make it something else, then I
might as well not have done it. Because you'll gain nothing from it".

"I might gain you", I suggested, and reached to run that luscious hair
between my fingers again.

She pulled away, a warning I didn't ignore. Reluctantly, I withdrew my
hand.

"A favour", she stressed.

"I understand", I assured her, unable to hide the sudden moroseness I
felt. "I know what was in your mind".

She misread the comment, compromised a little. "Well, not just a
favour", she fibbed.

It was a fib I thought it best to challenge. It was important that she
continued to believe in Favour Day, and in the rewards it brought both
to those who gave and received favours. It was important to her
self-confidence, and thus to her future happiness. And the truth,
regardless of such considerations, was that the Favour Day concept did
work. There was no need to justify or defend it.

"Just a favour", I replied gently. "And that's fine".

She seemed dubious. "Really?"

I sought eye contact, and achieved it. "Really", I assured her.

"But although it was a favour", she pointed out after a pause, "it was a
favour I very much enjoyed performing".

"That's the best kind, isn't it?", I presumed.

She nodded slowly, her mind momentarily wandering. Then she explained
where it had been. "I have to be on my way now", she said, and started
to stand.

I took her hand, momentarily delaying her. "This afternoon's been very
nice". Of course I hadn't found the right words, so I didn't give up and
continued to struggle for them. "It's been very special. An experience".

"I gave you what you needed, perhaps?", she wondered. "Well, at least I
hope so. That's what I intended".

"Yes, I think you did", I said, studying her short, slim fingers. "But
not because of what happened".

She helped me out. "Not because of what I did. Because of why I did it".

I nodded. "Exactly".

I felt her smile, looked up to see it illuminating her face. Her eyes
twinkled. She was pleased. Her favour had been valued. "It was my great
pleasure, Martin", she told me. "No thanks are necessary. Not on Favour
Day. But now I really do have to go".

"You're seeing Armand?", I presumed. I had no jealousy, because I knew
that Louise wasn't mine. Could never be mine, and remain happy.

"Of course", she answered. "It's important that I see him every day, at
least once. But today... Well, today is particularly important".

"I understand". I let her hand slip free. "Go, then", I said. "And thank
you".

"It isn't...", she began.

"I know", I said. "But it's important to me that I say it. So let me".

She shrugged, smiled. Her hair rose and fell with the gesture, reminding
me of the swell of a deep, dark, mysterious ocean. "That's another
favour", she pointed out.

"Humour me", I suggested.

She stood. I didn't. For a brief time she waited, and now her hair
seemed light, not dark, backlit, framed by the powdery sky. For all the
world she seemed like a creation of some dream, or myth, an ancient
Roman goddess, perhaps, but an achingly young one. Her link to reality
was momentarily tenuous, and so was my own. At that moment, and for that
moment alone, I wanted to deny her the future she sought, wanted to make
her stay with me, to crush her confidence on the altar of my needs. But
then she turned, and I was merely wistful again.

She walked to the edge of the clearing, moving in the direction of the
hill, back to wherever she had come from and whatever she would be. At
the treeline, she stopped, half turned.

I waved. She waved back.

Then she faced front and continued on her way.

She didn't turn again. She had no reason to.

Soon she appeared on the other side of the trees, climbing the hill. I
watched her until her route took her directly into the path of the
brilliant late afternoon rays of the sun, and when I could no longer see
her I still watched, hoping to see a final flicker of her, wild and
white and bright and putting the sun to shame. I watched until my eyes
hurt, and when I turned away, the black flash imprint always left on the
retina by light too strong to bear wobbled in my vision. It was an hour
before it cleared, and by then I was back at the tram station, waiting
to be returned to Basel city centre.

********************

Since then, I've been thinking. Which is usually a dangerous area for
me, because thinking leads to memories, and memories lead to regrets,
and regrets lead to pain. But this time it's been different. This time
I've been thinking in a new way. Or perhaps I've been thinking in an old
way, in a style I haven't visited for many years.

Thinking along these lines.

I start to suspect that there are places in the world where things
perhaps don't fall apart as quickly or as easily as elsewhere. Places
where maybe the future of things, the outcome of things, is a
destination which people don't want to arrive at, so they don't make the
travel arrangements. And consequently relationships survive, and retain
even their essential freshness because the lovers concentrate not on how
their love will develop, but rather on what their love means and is,
right there, right then.

When Lisa left me two years ago, it was, amongst other things, because I
wasn't a planner, because I had not structured the progress of our
affiliation in a way that satisfied her. Had she been with me today, I
supposed, and had she been gifted with an experience similar to my own,
that point would have lost its importance.

Or would it?

I cross-examined myself. Could Lisa and I have lived in Louise's world,
caring nothing for clock or season, simply being? Could we have woken up
side by side on Favour Day with thoughts of favours to grant to others
who had done nothing obvious to deserve them? And would a caring God
have permitted us to even try? Because there must, I thought, be a
divine hand in such decisions. An assessment of worthiness.

And from that logic comes today the understanding that I couldn't find
my way back to the Alsace I visited, no matter how hard I tried. That it
would be a task akin, or perhaps identical, in difficulty to finding the
land of the faeries.

Do you need more? Something concrete to justify such a flight of fancy?

Then how about this?

Ten minutes after Louise and I had parted, I passed through an unusually
dense area of woodland, and I recall thinking, when I emerged at the
other side, that some of the colour appeared to have drained from the
world, that the heat of the sun seemed harsher and more direct, that the
voices of the birds were a little more raucous.

I admit that Louise said or did nothing, and that I can recall nothing,
Favour Day aside, which should give me any reasonable cause to theorise
that she came from a different place or time. Equally, though, nothing
she said or did planted her firmly in my reality. I recall no topical
references.

But I know what I believe. I know what I shall always believe.

You?

Well, you, the reader, if you have both the time and the inclination in
your hectic schedule to consider such things of course, must make up
your own mind. As always.

And the future? For me?

I shall walk that route again, certainly. Not expecting to find anything
familiar from yesterday, but with a light heart and hope for other
things. And one route I think I shall never walk again is the one which
led me to Alsace in the first place. Because my self-pitying obsession
with Lisa, a woman who didn't, if I'm honest, really want me, has
finally gone.

I think that Louise taught me that the world has the capacity to
surprise. And that there is such a thing as true unselfishness. Love's a
different thing, and Louise didn't love me, couldn't have in so short a
time and wouldn't have because she was sworn willingly to another. But
unselfishness is the cornerstone to love, and I'm not too far today from
believing that if the one can be found, then so can the other. I'll be
fortunate to find it, yes. All who find it are fortunate. But the
looking, well, that's something I'm prepared to do again.

And in the absence of love, Louise showed me that the thing to do is to
live for the day. To do the things most likely to lead to happiness,
taking care to leave no insurmountable unhappiness for others in the
process. To gain pleasure for and from oneself, and for and from others.
Maybe Lisa had such thoughts, when she decided to let me go, and maybe
she didn't. But that doesn't matter. It isn't important any more.

I'll go on from here, then. I'll actively seek a better life. And I'll
try to make those who know me glad that they know me. It may be a
shallow ambition, a little self-serving even. But I don't give a fuck.
It's a way to live a life, and that's what I was short of.

Take what you want from this, friendly reader. Take nothing, if it suits
you. I know that I'm being evangelical about all this, but my intentions
are gentle. Gentle or not, though, it's the tenth of May today, and I'm
starting a new tradition. Evangelical still, I call you to join me. I
call you to tell everyone you care about to join me. To tell even those
you don't care about (although you can skip those you'd rather see leave
town). To put advertisements in newspapers. To make it happen, folks.
Yes, to make it happen.

One year from now I want to see ten thousand people participating. A
year after that, one hundred thousand people. I'm launching a movement,
here and now, and I want that movement to conquer the world.

The Tenth Of May Movement.

The Favour Day Movement.

Favour Day.

The biggest idea of all time.

The start of something better.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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