Georges And Céleste
I remember my arms around Georges on the motorcycle.
We had been in the mountains for five days, and we required Oreos. The closest store was twenty-five miles away, but sitting behind him as the wind tore through my loose clothes, distance didn’t matter.
We met the night before at the camp. It was late, and the stars above the New Mexico mountains were brighter than any I had seen in ages. He shared a…