At the break of dawn on Wednesday, exhausted by the lack of stimulation, we decide to go for a drive in Elisa's car. First on La Corniche d'Or toward Miramar and then north, away from the sun. The morning light bounces softly off the cliffs and in to the ocean like fields of cotton, nothing disturbs the silence but the sound of the engine and tires against glistening asphalt.
We pass by a
sandstone house, barely visible from the road but subtly alluring in its
Belle Epoque glory. Henry wants to take a closer look so we stop and
walk the 100 yards up to the empty driveway. One of the windows is
slightly open, "let's go in" he says.
The darkened chill inside
contrasting the outside, rays of sunlight filtered narrowly through
Venetian blinds and on to the monochrome marble floor. We search for
evidence of the owner's existence, puzzling together the pieces of a
story from pictures we find in the master bedroom. For an instant we are
living the lives of others until a noise awakens us and we hurry back
to the car and the reality that is still ours.