By the time I arrive, it is still morning. From my window, I see him and her in the small garden of their holiday home. He sits in a chair reading a book. Her legs stick out from beneath a tree that partly covers my view. From what I can see, she is a white, lifeless, blob.
A few hours later, his face lights up in adoration. The legs move. I imagine he asks her whether she slept well and is happy for her that she did. He then jumps up to get her a piece of cake. He’s had his. So it’s all hers. I see her from behind. Bobbed, blonde hair. She wears a spaghetti dress over a long sleeved t-shirt. And white leggings that she has pulled up above her knees. She has two pink clips in her hair, as if she were a girl. Despite that, her body is still a blob, bent over this time while eating her cake. I am curiously interested. Jealous perhaps, on seeing how infatuated he is with her. In his eyes, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. You would think they had only just met. But when she turns to look up at the skies, I see an older woman. Fifty perhaps even.
In the evening, they eat a plate of pasta in silence. After dinner they both read. He drinks coke. She drinks fanta. They share an apple.