“C'est l'amour! C'est l'amour fou des enfants!” Constance declared one sultry summer’s night. “Love blinds them, you know? The folly of youth.”

I nod along, fiddling with the bottle of beer on the table. The streets are quiet now, haunted by shadows of lovers and friends in search of midnight amusement. They will be up until sunrise, dancing in some pub we aren’t privy to. Secret places known only through word of mouth. A friend of a friend’s of a friend’s and so on and so forth.

She takes a handful of gulp, placing back the cigarette on her smudged lips. “Ma chère amie, what has become of us? Did we become—comment-s'il-dit—frigid? Non, not that one... Ah, yes! Have we become disillusioned? Cynical? Finding faults even when there are none? Have we lost our folly, ma chère? I would give anything to be in Santiago’s arms once again. Travel back to France, even...”

I keep quiet. Eyes downcast to the unfinished pastry she insisted I order. I can’t bring myself to hand over his letter. It would break her heart a great deal. Every one was aware of the unspoken truth that befell upon the fates of men who volunteered for honourable morals. Santiago Vilar, was one such man.

“Does it matter?” I say. “Is our offering of love not enough, you think? Our love is as much as folly as those of the youth. We hold on to them dearly, it may as well destroy us.”

I think of Santiago, whose entire life revolved around Constance. Then of Constance, her inherent need to be loved and fear of it even. Of the two of them, strolling by the promenade on the eve of his departure, twilight just shy of peeking over the coastline. Promises of letters that will never come; fates of honourable men for honourable morals.