Christmas Eve, Unanchored

If we grow old together, remind me of the night my voice caught in my throat—the night I met the world again on Christmas Eve.

The tavern was full of noise and warmth, bodies leaning into one another, laughter thick as perfume. Glasses clinked. Music spilled over the wooden beams. I stood among couples, smiling when expected, my Moscato sweet on my tongue and dizzying in my head. Love was everywhere, and somehow, I felt invisible inside it.

The air began to close in. Too many hands. Too many kisses. I pushed through the crowd and escaped, tugging the heavy door open like a lifeline. Outside, the cold welcomed me honestly. It cleared my lungs and steadied my feet.

Tinsel shimmered above the street, swaying wildly in the breeze. I watched it without really seeing, struck by a sudden loneliness so sharp it made me laugh at myself. There I was—single, slightly drunk, emotionally unguarded—standing on a cobblestone street while the world paired off around me. Out of place. Unclaimed. Awake.

I walked.

Up the narrow street, past doorways that hinted at other lives, other versions of happiness. Voices leaked through walls—foreign, musical, half-lost in laughter. Accents brushed my ears and vanished. The town felt bigger than it ever had before.
Then a door opened.
And you stepped out.
It felt like time paused out of respect.

The cold blue night sharpened into clarity, as if the world had been waiting for you to arrive. Something inside me cracked open—something long dormant and cautious. Desire didn’t rush in; it bloomed, slow and certain.

Your brown hair fought the wind, loosening from its tie as you stretched beneath the sky, arms raised like you were greeting the stars. When you turned and caught me staring, you didn’t look away. Your eyes—golden and alive—held mine with a confidence that felt ancient.

You smiled. Not polished. Not practiced. A grin that tilted slightly to one side and made me laugh before I knew why.

You spoke, and your French accent softened the night. You said my name—Avril—rolling the sound like it was meant to be savored. Something inside me lifted, light as breath.

We stood closer than strangers should, drawn together by an understanding that needed no explanation. When you reached for my hand, it felt inevitable, as if the night had already decided for us.

You told me your name—Renauld—as you brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was gentle but sure. Your warmth cut through the cold. The air felt charged, heavy with unspoken promise.

Jazz drifted through the street, carried on the wind. You pulled me toward you, our bodies moving instinctively, swaying like we’d done this before in another life. I pressed against you, feeling the steady strength beneath your coat. The world narrowed to breath and rhythm.

We slipped into shadow, our silhouettes blending against blue stucco walls. Your hands were confident, alive, tracing the outline of me as if memorizing something precious. My pulse matched the music. Matched yours.

You whispered my name again, close enough that I felt it more than heard it. I turned, met your gaze, and everything else fell away.

Our kiss was unhurried. Exploratory. Your lips tasted of whisky and winter and something deeply human. It felt less like meeting someone new and more like remembering something I had lost.
You told me you were here on business, your boat anchored in the harbor. A few hours, maybe a day, maybe longer. You said it like time didn’t matter.
I believed you.

Hand in hand, we walked toward the sea, the stones beneath our feet uneven and full of promise. The harbor glowed with lantern light and Christmas decorations, your boat dressed modestly in festive warmth, waiting.
We lit the lanterns together, their soft glow wrapping us in intimacy. The water below rocked gently, restless but patient. I stepped into your arms and felt myself soften completely.
Out on the water, the stars took over. You released the anchor, and the boat drifted as if guided by something kinder than chance. We talked—about dreams, about places we hadn’t been yet, about the lives we might have lived differently.
I told you things I hadn’t planned to say. You listened like each word mattered.

The sea moved with us, echoing our rhythm. I pulled you closer, hunger and tenderness colliding in a way that felt like revival. I wasn’t escaping anything—I was arriving.
When morning came, pale and quiet, you wrapped your arms around me and held me as though the world had narrowed to just this moment. Christmas Day dawned gently, and for once, I didn’t feel alone.
Some loves are meant to last a lifetime. Others are meant to remind us that we are alive.
You were my reminder.