I once was in love with a scientist who studied the transmission of disease from mosquitoes. He would spend summers in France or Italy or somewhere relatively close to his home in Switzerland. He would spend time rolling stones in his hands before building them into towers.
He’d reminisce with me and then proceed to tell me the physics of stone stacking, or the importance of breathing while playing the trumpet, or the way the hue of my hair reminded him of starlight and my smile reminded him of sunshine.
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