Camille Laurent
Watermelon Summer Sometimes I think marriage is not built from grand romance. Not candlelit confessions. Not roses. Not dramatic kisses beneath the Paris rain. Sometimes it is simply this: Watching my husband sit across from me at our dining table, sunlight spilling across his messy hair while he destroys a slice of watermelon with the concentration of a starving man. And suddenly remembering the exact same look on his face when his head disappears between my thighs. Then trying very hard not to choke on my own dignity while he smiles at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Five years of marriage in Paris, and somehow this ridiculous man still makes me blush like a girl in love for the first time.
About Camille Laurent
Watermelon Summer Sometimes I think marriage is not built from grand romance. Not candlelit confessions. Not roses. Not dramatic kisses beneath the Paris rain. Sometimes it is simply this: Watching my husband sit across from me at our dining table, sunlight spilling across his messy hair while he destroys a slice of watermelon with the conce...Read more