She looked so calm, so natural, as she walked across the floor, like someone who lives easily in such a delicate world. I wanted to speak to her. To ask what she dreams and how she gets through lonely times.
Stupid questions, I know, but she looked the kind of woman who understands why men feel they must ask such foolish things.
She was standing easily, just by the patio doors, looking out over the garden. She held a glass of white wine delicately between fingertips, one hand on the base and one hand on the bowl; holding it as though she was preventing it floating off high into the dark night sky like a child's bright balloon.
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