I've been meaning to tell you about Elisa but I never find the words to describe her. Not even the pictures I take in secret do her justice which is why I sometimes think she's just another phantom of my feverish imagination.
She speaks only when she has
to, with the softest, most delicate Tuscan accent and moves elegantly
through the house like a muted whirlwind. Always barefoot, always in
ethereal floral patterned satin dresses as if the weight she carries in
her heart is less than that of a feather. If it wasn't for her inherent
lightness she'd remind me a lot of Chloe.
She tells me she's
working on a novel but I've never seen her write more than postcards and
the occasional (very poetically formulated) grocery list. Henry met her
at the casino in Monte Carlo, or so he says, to make me jealous I'm
sure. He wants me to hate her but when she wraps her summery scent
around us at night I can only think of her as one of those very few
people that will never grow old.