Thursday, June 5, 2014


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.

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