Once it was exposed to the light of day on the floor of the shooting range, my attraction to Marcel flourished, even in chilly Luxembourg, like a wild tropical vine. It grew, it spread, it climbed the walls, and, hack at it though I might, it would not slow its advance. He was the only other person I saw most days, and I never grew tired of looking at him.
And what was there to be sick of? Not the flat butterscotch belly that he showcased every morning, padding into my room in flannel pajama pants with my first cup of coffee. “Café au lit,” he would sing after two small raps on the door; coffee in bed. Certainly not the jiggle of the junk in his trunk when he’d pad back to the kitchen. He was all business on the range, but when he would yell my name like it was a swear word—Beau!—there wa
