Crossing the line

Mark

Mark Knopfler was in great form that evening and he radiated from the stage. The public, on typical French reserve, didn't really deserve such a great musician. Three and a half hour only from her house; it had been an easy, and a very merry ride down the Rhône Valley to the Arenas of Nîmes. His little Ford Fiesta seemed to please her enough – he even laughed about how she wasn't with him for money. The mock look she returned said it all; money had nothing to do with her presence in his little car. Yet, having her there, beside him... it was a bit surreal, and so normal at the same time. Frances had laid her claim upon the seat by his side; it was hers now. Her hand returned to his so often; a connection that was already becoming very addictive.

They talked freely for the very first time; there were neither ears nor eyes to be wary of. No one from school, no parents, no comrades... no one but them. No obligation and no constraints. And it seemed that eternity would not be enough to share their view of the world, for he recognised himself at every turn. Incredible, how they got along, how their minds worked alike. Everything was so simple, natural and easy. They grabbed a bite before the concert nearby, poor quality food, a little overpriced – hey, south of France ! You pay for the sun – but Frances didn't complain like his ex-wife would have. She just commented, shrugging her shoulders as she stated that 'who cared, given the present company?'. Would she feel the same in a year ? Ten ?

Wow, wow, why was his mind projecting so far ahead already ?

So if the public wasn't quite a nice as expected, Frances and Tristan had not a care in the world as they danced, intertwined, in their little share of the space at the stage's feet. They had kissed more times that he was able to count... he had trouble keeping his lips to himself. She was now swaying gently in front of him, his hips accompanying the movement, his hand around her tiny waist.

Frances wasn't as shy as he feared, and the mood unleashed her; she had tilted her head upon his collarbone, her right hand looped over his head. A slow, sensual dance that made his skin hum; Tristan bent slightly to kiss her neck, content with the music, content in the world. And despite Mark's great talent – a man he almost revered – he wasn't the star of his evening. She was, and the guitarist provided the perfect scenery to build memories.

'Shangri-La' came, and the rolling riffs of the sea intertwined with Mark's rugged voice, creating a moment of incredible peace. Frances turned around in his arms, resting her cheek upon his chest in a giant hug. Again and again, they swayed, his heart beating steadily, her heat spreading through him.

"Get that fire burning strong
Right here and right now
It's here and then it's gone
There's no secret, anyhow"

He couldn't help but remember the first time he had dragged her against him... against all sound judgment as well. He, a teacher. She, his student, locked in the restroom. But everything had changed now, he could feel it in the pure contentment that radiated from her, in the way her little fingers caressed his back in the middle of this crowd. For he wasn't a teacher here, only a man. Tristan, and his Iseult. Or so he hoped. May this moment never stop.

"We may never love again
To the music of guitars
In our Shangri-La"

How incredibly fitting those words were, and Tristan smiled. Frances had no idea their hotel was on the sea front. She had begged to get to see the Mediterranean in passing; he had obliged and couldn't wait to see her face in the morning.

"Tonight your beauty burns
Into my memory
The wheel of heaven turns
Above us endlessly
This is all the heaven we've got
Right here where we are
In our Shangri-La"

He couldn't agree more; she looked so perfect tonight. A simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt that revealed her collarbone, long hair tied in her trademark bun. Laidback, without any adornments, yet so beautiful. He lifted her face gently, long fingers cupping her cheek. And despite the dim lighting, her eyes shone brightly, hooded below long lashes. The lines of her face were so refined, noble, even, under the slightly honey coloured skin. He watched her for a long time, swaying gently, soaking in the music, the moment, the incredible chance that such a wonderful woman could look at him with awe. His little fairy.