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  • It was a long coach journey, the way back to our town, our friends, our schools, and of course, our parents. We touched, now more shyly than in the previous two weeks. It had been a dream: the glorious Austrian mountains, a luminous February, the month of our birthdays.
    O your pride, the pride in your eyes, gazing at the violet light, kissing me in a mouthful of snow! I was your man. All fifteen of me, all fifteen of you - and the promises on your face: suddenly the dam would give, our lives, our happiness, just there…

    Your young breasts pressed against my chest, my hesitant hands on those firm thighs: so daunting, and yet we wore our virginity like medals. So cold and pure the air, so blond your hair in the morning. Segregated we were, and our coach would have no nonsense. You challenged him: after all you were, already, a young woman. I admired you, I had eyes only for you. The pale blue of your jumper, the wooden skis we used in those days, the rough boots.

    We arrived, our parents were there waiting. Your mother looked at me quizzically. A last smile, the skiing holiday was over. We would have, at most, another year of chaste bliss before reality took over.
    But I can’t forget: I have loved Tyrol ever since, I want my ashes to be scattered there, where once you took me by the hand and said the words: “I want you to be mine, forever.”
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