“was it lovely, the french countryside?” elliott twirls a finger in his mulled ale, bewitched by the stranger’s tales of worldly travel. “i’ve always wanted to visit mallarmé’s summer home on the seine, but i’m deeply afraid of airplanes.” he sniffs. “and the french.”
Roger’s impromptu trip took a turn for the unexpected and arguably worse when, during a late afternoon swim, dark clouds contoured against the diffuse line of the horizon. Shortly enough, even the stubborn racer was chased inside by a furious storm, the sky opening up to let torrential rain and groaning thunders descend upon the idyllic paysage. As usual, Roger finds himself inside a seaside bar and restaurant, quickly finding company in a man he learns is named Elliott, is a writer and, more recently, that he is deathly afraid of planes and the French.
A soft laugh rises from Roger as he listens to the other man, which he rushes away with a sip of beer.
“It’s gorgeous, but maybe I've just gotten used to it and now it feels like a second home,” he speaks, words muttered under the influence of fondness. He has been visiting France since his childhood and teenage years, his sponsor having rather tender sentiments for the French culture and instilling the same love in the racer.
“Now that you mention it,” he continues with an amused smile, “the French and planes are very similar. They both seem loud and unapproachable, but are actually quite pleasant once you get comfortable around them,” he laughs, shifting his body as to face the other more now. “But you live in paradise so I doubt you have a need for more beautiful landscapes.” A pause, demeanour changing, the curve of his mouth and his gaze taking on a suggestive note. “If I had some of these views every day, I wouldn’t want to ever leave.” His eyes roll over the other as well, just as the word ‘views’ makes its way on his smirking lips, as a way to decidedly drive the point home.
