The girl known as Therese is hungrier than she had expected.
“I’d told you to eat a bigger breakfast,” her husband says exasperatedly.
“I wasn’t hungry then.” She had been too full of emotions; the bubbling of excitement, the warmth of affection, the glittering of cheerfulness.
“Should we stop for second breakfast, then?” he asks, wryly.
“No need. I will go buy something from the shops," she says, dropping a kiss on his cheek and stepping away. She smiles as he gives a bow; soon she is in the throng of the overcrowded train station, trying to push her way towards a distant array of sandwiches.
Her shoulder bumps into someone else's: the jostle of strangers, an impact of awareness, and she looks up, startled beyond measure, at familiar cheeks decorated with freckles and eyes as green as windblown grasses. She knows those freckles, those eyes; it has been a year, maybe two, or perhaps only some months, but she knows them, knows him, and the knowledge triggers something inside of her.
The words fall from her mouth before she can stop them. I'm sorry. She wonders if he hears. But regardless of it, he does not look at her; he does not even pause to blink before turning away, his mouth a hard line. Had he recognized her? But no, he hadn't even stopped long enough to see her features clearly.
Therese takes a step forward after him. She considers calling out his name, running after him like a woman who has seen a long-lost lover (Therese rather thought that she had, after all, lost him, though it had been by design and not by accident).
But then she takes a step back. She has found a home now, where she can stay at peace. The restless thrum of her heart has quieted, finally. What if he is still thinking of her? Then she cannot call out, not if she wants him to release the past, to discover the same peace she has found.
So she only watches as he boards the train, bound for a destination she does not know, and will not ask for. She watches as the train pulls away, bringing him farther with every minute, and she murmurs a farewell she learned long ago, in a city constructed from wine and beauty. Au revoir: goodbye, until we meet again.