Axel Garcia…
She looked exactly the same, I thought, my heart was pumping as if I'd run ten miles—the woman from my dulcet memories, as though she’d only left us a minute before. A rush of sensation—more than that, sentiment—heavy as Irish lace, sweet as ripe papaya, unfamiliar but wonderful—inundated my mind.
When I was with her, I always felt as though the world had been washed fresh and clean, and its bounty was mine to enjoy. A childlike delusion, fascinating in its intensity.
Her brown hair was now short, almost her shoulders; the natural curl softly frizzed as he remembered it in wisps around her face. I wanted to touch it lightly, as if testing the buoyancy of gossamer, then slide my fingers through it.
I wanted to grip her head possessively and pull her close to me so her petit
