A Beautiful Morn

The hotel is on a hill and offers a grand view of the river and the town. The best point is by the railing bordering the courtyard, right next to the pool and the lobby. It is not a spectacular view but for him it is. He is in his mid-forties, greying, looking tired, lonely with his thoughts, a fighter past his prime, but eager for one last bout in the ring.

He took in the rain-drenched roads, the first young ones rushing to their posts; the early morning sun threw colours at the sky and the river, erasing with increasing brightness; the green-brown river lazed reflected, the bridge stretching waking over it, the fishing boats scratched its top; even the rust on gaudy casino ships add a nice touch, he thought.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he muttered to himself.

“Yes, it is.”

He turned, mildly startled. He had not heard her approach. She stood a few meters away. Not spectacular but lovely, he thought. She kept her eyes on the river; dark brown eyes, gentle eyes. She was not smiling, but it was there in those eyes and on that face, he felt. He should turn away, he told himself. He kissed her with his eyes, on her neck, cheeks, lips, lower to the top of the yellow blouse.

He moved closer.

“Thank you,” he said. He turned to the river, “thank you.”

He stood near her, hands on the railing; one curling around it, the other one next to her with upturned palm.

“Will you hold my hand?” he asked.

She placed her hand on his. They stood there, hand in hand, studying the work of art before them.

His wife had come to the lobby, ready to join him for breakfast. Her husband stood by the window in a first-floor room looking down. They watched the two at the railing.