Isabelle is her name. She lives in a country in the far north, serenely beautiful. It is just that the winter there is too long for a dreamer of sunsets and sandy beaches. She longs, far too frequently, for a retreat somewhere on the Greek or Canary Islands. At this moment, she is quietly counting down the cold days. It is 07 March. Snowflakes are dancing outside the window, hither and thither, no sign of spring. Not yet.
Her room is not tidy. Layers of books on the floor waiting in silence, “will it be my turn this evening?” Bling Willow, Sleep Woman by Murakami whispers to Dubliners by Joyce. “It depends on her mood, certainly it does.” The Waves by Woolf does not join the conversation. Her faint smile is barely visible in half-darkness.
She loves cafés but she rarely drinks coffee. She drinks tea, plenty of tea, with soy or oat milk. Breathing in freshly brewed espresso and cappuccino, she reads and writes in those old charming places, sometimes with a sea view. She feels perfectly content, thinking, “I should get myself a cup of coffee.” She lifts the flowery porcelain cup to her lips and sips it, her hot black tea.