As it was her day and hers alone, she wore nothing under her dress. Alone and buoyant, she jumped on the swing and sang the first song that came in t... her head: Papa was a rolling stone/Wherever he lay his hat was his home. On and on, she sang. Her voice rising, the only sound around. She swung higher and higher. The hem of her dress flying open. The breeze caressing her wide open legs, wreaking havoc on her ability to remember the words. She did not much care, as it turns out. It was not just. A high fence, an open gate, a clay path with palms, a rose garden with in its centre, in the full sun, a whirlpool with foam and the Greek lady I just met with her head just above the waterline in the very middle of it, her hair up, silver sunglasses, another cigarette. I put the coffee next to the pool and feel self conscious. We drink and there’s a silence that I feel uneasy about.‘You can shower over there’, she points. In the other corner of her garden, I indeed see the shower. She feels my. More

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