E-1027

It hung in the corner with weight of its own: bunched, curled, a gauzy twist of fresh cheese. With the sea to my back, it caught my eye above the bed, nestled among the pale peach walls and across the careful, delicate desk. Its presence so commonplace; an object for mere function, haphazardly held up to make space.

As a material, it was soft, almost feminine: sheer, light, an intimate curtain to protect. When opened, I imagine it would waft in the breeze from the stretch of open windows. What would Eileen dream of? Her lover, her hats? Or would she lay awake to the smell of paint and dust, only hours earlier excitedly deciding, “I think I’ll sleep here tonight”?

And in the morning, would she open her eyes to the water—would she take steps to the kitchen for tea and the courtyard and bees, and stand out at the back counter, trees all around her, with the sound of morning birds and swallows and gulls surrounding with their movement in the early day’s light?