Alec

by William di Canzio

He woke in terror—he could see only darkness. It was the wool of his sleeve. He’d covered his eyes with his arm in sleep. He sat up too fast; that made him feel dizzy, sickish. The smoke from the vineyards was gone. How long had he slept? Hours, to judge by the sun. Midafternoon now, and he’d missed the train back to Marseille. He’d have to wait at the station again. About to start on his way toward town, he heard splashing and noticed someone else’s belongings at the edge of the rocks. A tall boy climbed out of the sea—sixteen or seventeen, naked and handsome, with dark hair and wide shoulders, his skin ruddy brown from last summer’s swimming. He dried himself with his shirt and called out to another. A second boy stumbled onto the rocks from the water, likewise naked, but shorter and slight, with curly hair and a mischievous grin. He dried himself with the first one’s shirttails—no reason both their shirts should get wet. The taller one swatted at him and lay down. Schoolboys. Copybooks among their dark clothes. Lads: that’s how officers spoke of their men. Too young by just a year, he guessed, to have been conscripted for even the end of the war. How he envied them, their limbs lithe and smooth, braving the threat of a chill to be naked together in the sun on this fine fall day. The taller one wanted his friend to lie with him. The shorter had put on his glasses, noticed that Alec was awake, and warned the other with a glance. The tall one half raised himself up to look...