Deflowered

We slept. The sun rose on September 23, and I woke to a younger woman at my computer, editing my work with the curator’s blue almond eyes. Her ponytail was neat, her perfume fresh. I sipped her tea.

“I went to the hotel, and asked Selene to speak to our parents.” She gave me a novel from her luggage, the translation of Murakami: South of the Border, West of the Sun. “The taxi is coming. Miles to go before I sleep.”

“Didn’t get enough rest?”

“I never do. You snore worse than my sister.” She yawned, typed her email in a new file, and stood up. “Tell me when you receive my gift. You’ll know when you see it.”

She put on her shoes. I followed suit, helping with her bags and suitcases.