She floats in through a window it seems, taking a seat next to me as naturally as sunlight in a forest. I look over, not all that surprised to see her, and we begin to talk as she sets her worn travelling bag down beside our table. A flowery tattoo peeks out from underneath her lace shirt as shrugs her coat onto her chair, and we both settle into our conversation.

Later that evening we sit close to each other on the couch and talk long into the night. It seems as if we talk more at night or in the early morning, when it’s dark outside. I doze off eventually, her whispers lulling me into sleep and populating my dreams.

I wake up happily, but find an empty, forlorn, house. No note. No sign of passing. Her dusty bag and sweet smelling perfume are nowhere to be found. As I roll out of bed, the memory of her sticks in my mind and leaves me craving more. For now, however, I am content with a small breakfast spent staring out of my kitchen window. There are birds singing in the trees and summer is in the air.