Amour, We Rue Its Myth
Boris L. Glebov
George sat on the stump of a great ash tree with his feet drawn up. The incessant rains—mercifully halted for a brief respite—left the ground soaked to the point of being marsh-like. His fine Italian boots had surely been ruined. He looked toward the lakeside mansion and felt cut off, stranded on his stump island. The remove felt familiar and secure.
The purple sky reflected in the placid lake, reflected in the window panes of the house. Though it was scarcely past midday, candles had been lit throughout and they made the windows glow like the downcast eyes of a melancholy beauty, exotic and ruined. Some remnants of his dreams clung to the landscape as cobwebs do, and he wondered, again, if he were fully awake.
There had been something theatrical
