Before Marin was ill, she and Albie would visit the French countryside every year to her childhood home. Their last summer there, before the hospitals and treatments, had been the best it could possibly be.

That morning, Albie finds the warm curve of her hip under the sheets, admiring every inch of her. He kisses the shell of her ear, her shoulder, her jaw, murmurs how he cherishes her. He thinks she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Her hair falls in this amazing flood of red-blonde tresses, over her pale skinny shoulders, framing the beauty of her pointy, doe-eyed face. He smiles as she turns over in her sleep, and leaves her her favourite flower in the water jug when he takes his shower.

Breakfast, and Marin stands half naked in the cream-tiled kitchen, nursing the sizzling pancakes. She hums the French tunes on the old radio, dishing out Albie's favourite recipe and readying his current book of choice. He glides in, water-studded and warm - Marin thinks he is the most beautiful man in the world. He has this perpetually tousled dark hair and crooked glasses that endear him to every stranger. His smile, adorably gap-toothed and pearl white, his awkward tallness strapping.

They dance, nude among the intimate hazy steam, staring into one another, to the old radio, both believing themselves to be the lucky one.