My boyfriend invited me to his parent’s ski chalet.
The stone fireplace was a symphony of obsessive ochres, ravishing reds, and barbarous blues. It warmed the cabin, whose timbered ceiling and rustic furniture made a mockery of the sterile interiors found in the city.
A large pile of letters was scattered on a pear wood table. Love letters. Some had been delicately perfumed, while others were so delightfully written they must have originated on Mount Parnassus. My boyfriend rightly insisted I burn them all; past weakness and impudence needed purification.
The paper burned with great fidelity.
Luckily, they were careful copies.