At midnight, Pierre led me to the park he spoke of. He’d produced a huge picnic basket, and I carried a blanket. The spot he chose was near a huge oak tree and was quiet and beautiful. It was indeed a park of lights that had been arranged in the shapes of flowers. No one else was around and we were in our own world.
“This is gorgeous,” I said reverently as I took it all in while Pierre laid out the blanket and set up the picnic basket.
“Yes, it is. I enjoy coming here. The solitude and greenery remind me of my youth in the countryside in Romania, before I was turned.”
I took the hand Pierre held out and sat beside him on the blanket. “Is it painful to speak of how it happened?” I asked, taking the grapes he offered and leaning against his firm body, which rested on the tree trunk.
“For
