“The two women spent an amazing weekend together. Talking. Getting to know each other better. Making love. They made some memories they would never forget. But then the weekend ended. And the Australian woman had to get back to work, leaving the French woman alone all day. And what was strange was that this French woman had been traveling on her own, purposefully, for two months by then. She enjoyed the solitude, the room to breathe and think, but on the Monday after that weekend, she’d never felt so alone. Bereft almost, although she may have had a typical French flair for the dramatic. Lost. Like something important—no the most important part of her was missing. Even though she had to ask herself the question: how can it be? How is this possible?”

Camille goes silent for long seconds. I miss her voice reverberating through my car. Her funny inflections. Her endearing accent. Wait. Is this the end of the story?

“Zoya?” she asks, breaking her narrator character.

“Yes.” My voice sounds so hollow and broken.

“We still have to come up with the ending for this story. Together.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Use them to think about how it will end,” Camille says, and hangs up the phone quite abruptly.

This has been one of the most fascinating commutes of my life. I’m definitely moving to Darlinghurst. Maybe I can call Camille every day when I get back from work and she can tell me a story like that. Something to keep me going. What’s the time difference again? But no, I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I should be thinking about an ending for the story. A happy one. I rack my brain, but traffic gets busy around Darlinghurst and I need to find a place to park, and I know there’s not really room for a happy ending here.

I knock on the door, my impatience coming through clearly in the intensity of my knock. I want to break down the door like I ripped off her panties the other day.

The door flies open and Camille stands in front of me. It’s like I haven’t seen her in weeks instead of hours. She’s freshly out of the shower and her hair is wet and falls heavily on her shoulders. She’s barefoot and wrapped in a towel. She’s so slight, it can wrap around her twice.

She drags me inside by the hand and slams the door shut behind me. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls me closer, looks into my eyes, and kisses me. Her tongue invades my mouth from the get-go. Her wet hair slides across my face. Her hands pull me closer by the back of my head.

When we break apart, she looks at me, breathlessly, and says, “I can’t remember ever feeling this way.”