Jeanie woke at dawn to watch the sun rise in the three-story east window. Her curlers took their teeth out of her hair, and it fell, silvering, to arthritic hips. She undressed and picked for the day a white gown. The water for her coffee grew to a boil.
She cracked two eggs and fried the first, placed it on a crisp slice of French bread and promptly threw both away. She fried the second, placed it on crisp slice of French bread and ate it slowly, deliberately. As her coffee pressed, the scent electrified her brain. She stepped onto her tall patio among busts and foliage and expensive lounge-chairs and chose one. The others were left unoccupied. The sun already warmed the air. She sat until the dregs of her coffee stared up at her.
She washed the saucer and dried it evenly and placed it upside-down on the white cloth beside the sink. She went to the sitting room filled with busts and foliage and expensive lounge-chairs and chose one. The others were left unoccupied. Paper and a fountain pen emerged, shy, from a little African wooden box. She wrote quickly, neatly:
On a boat in the gloaming with the wind in my hair. The moon blossoming next to a fading sun. Grapes and olives and white paper and oranges define the day, myriad small figures grow smaller as I sail along the coast. The sun bakes my skin, turning me the color of warmth as my lover fills my glass and kisses me lightly, my dear child, you are the blossoming moon and the fading sun and the color of warmth, halation, I love you and will love you, your arms are meant to wrap tightly my waist, the small of my back was meant to warm your hands, my veins whisper your name, they always have, I love you, I will love you, my sweet, grapes chill my tongue, sun warms my breast, the sea is our home, the Irish sea, a boat and a field and the moon and the wind, your heart calls my name, it always has, it always has. Your mouth is my body, my body is your mouth, your eyes shine, your arms are waiting, I love you, I will love you, your brown eyes are my name, my name is your mouth, your back is my breast, I love you, I will love you, a garden and children and white stone and blue water, the sea is our life, the sun is our heart, our shared heart, talk to me, speak to me, sing to me, I’ll sing for you, I’ll sing for you, I’ll sing for you.
She sat quietly for a moment, folded the page in half and walked to her patio once more. The page slid over the railing and down to the grass, where it landed quietly. She looked over the edge to see several hundred identical little white pages covered in fountain-pen ink from her little African wooden box. She wept. With full intention, she put one leg over the railing, and then the other, the wind blowing in her still silver hair and the now midday sun baking her skin, and she leapt and landed quietly among several hundred identical little white pages.