I think of him more than I should, certainly more than I wish I did, but there is no remedy for it. Spring is little more than a memory now and with the nights shorter, the air thick with humidity, I can almost taste the sherry, hear the music ringing in my ears with the candles shining bright and one voice low, yet rising through it all. It's a wonder, how easily I'd pushed it aside during my exile, pretending not to notice each year when the skies exploded with man-made storms and all I could recall was falling confetti, a trio in back all but overpowered by tinkling laughter.
Those nights were never pleasant, even through the haze of memory, but they were his; and now, when summer begins in earnest and his phantom hands still dance on my skin those long moments before night bleeds to day, I cannot force my thoughts away.
Chason helps, as he does, but I do not imagine he could ever understand why I look away now and again, as he talks of this grand party and all I can think of are fetes long forgotten by any but me. Our eyes would connect those nights, attendance required no matter where in Europe my travels had taken me, a homecoming that never had a thing to do with Milan. Even if we did not speak, and some years I think he avoided me altogether, we shared in that. Now, of course, it is much more apparent why his eyes shone as they did, those dark thoughts on his brow that I took to be mysterious, inviting.
It changes nothing; those sorts of revelations rarely do. Because July is coming, isn't it? And while Milan has certainly moved on, it's darling boy turned traitor, murderer, there is one here who must pause and remember the life of Richard Montague.