"Okay."
Mouth to mouth they made love, her stomach pushing, his flattening, the bed squeaking: his penis felt hot to her, her vulva felt warm to him; her perspiring body was in accord with his; he clasped his fingers over her narrow buttocks; their mutual orgasm began, stopped, then flashed again and again: Jesus, Jesus, dearest, darling ... yes ... yes ... oui ... your mouth now ...
She lay back.
"It's ours, my dear," she laughed, "the prix de Rome!"
"I accept," he laughed. "We've earned it ... double award."
They never got to the hospital until early morning, she and Orville striding together, the sun brilliant; after good-byes, after lingering kisses, he walked away, walked about the village before returning home for breakfast. After breakfast, he commenced a letter to his mother, to inform her of his leave. As he wrote on an old leather writing pad, sitting by his bedroom window, Aunt Therèse knocked, and called his name.
She had aged: her features were reddish and swollen, pudgy contours that were somehow childish. The mouth smiled and yet there were wrinkles in the way of her smile. Seven years had done this. They kissed dutifully.
"I'm sorry," she wheezed. "We just got here, just now ... Claude said you were upstairs. I'm sorry ... I'm so upset."
"No, no! There's nothing to be upset about. Sit down."
"I think Lena's caught cold ... another cold ... she has too many of them ... you see we got soaking wet, couldn't raise the top of the car ... that awful downpour ... oh, we had to borrow clothes last night ... we had to go to bed early!" Orville grinned, in spite of himself.