It was London, 1963. I remember that. I remember the lemonade sky above the Thames, the smell of smoke from countless chimneys. Horse-drawn carriages were still the norm, back then, but the first automobiles were appearing among the rich. Oh how people stared at them!
It was in London that I first met Glory. That’s what she called herself when we met, in the market on Hampstead Heath. I thought she was just another girl with too much money and time on her hands and not enough common sense. Her fae nature was not immediately apparent. By the time I realized what, and who, she was, it was too late. I was hopelessly smitten, and I like to think she was fond of me as well.
Not that it mattered.
It was just a few days in London.
Eventually, I returned to Atlantis, buffeted by good investments and pleasant memories. She burned bright in my memory for some time, before being eclipsed by my dear wife.
But Adelaide is gone now and, in these gray twilight days, I look less toward the future and more to the past. To those handful of days in London, laughing with a fae girl on Hampstead Heath and stealing cherry-flavored kisses from that same girl.
That was over fifty years ago. The world is a different place. The last time I was in London, I barely recognized it. Its streets are choked with clockwork vehicles and strange folk from foreign worlds. The London air smelt like cardamom and fresh asphalt.
Glory is still there, but most people know her as Gloriana III, great-granddaughter of Oberon and Elizabeth. She hasn’t aged a day since our rambles on the heath. She’s still as young and lovely as a spring flower.
I wonder if she remembers me?
I wonder if her lips still taste of cherry?