Reflections in the Meuse
He did not see her. How could it be any difference, the setting September sun shone fiercely in his eyes, the same light must have deprived her of her sight as well. His hands gripped the balustrade even tighter. He stared down at the water of the Meuse. Every so often, his eyes would drift to the right, to the quay where she stood. Where she was once the frail lady on his arm whom he was proud to show the world, now…