campsite fling

Deep in my private locker, I’m yanking open the vault on this scorching secret from summer 1988. Camping Honolulu, Le Boucau. Late afternoon heat clings. I’m 21, Sandrine, lounging by our tent. Christophe, my three-year boyfriend, surfs all day, crashes at night. Dreamed of exotic romance post-college. Got Atlantic waves and neglect instead. After-sun lotion…