Pale sunlight cast a dappled shadow through the translucent curtains of Albert’s study. Somewhere on the eaves a mourning dove cooed. And you. You sat plaintively in the great bay window across from the mahogany desk, mein made hazy by its occupant’s lingering cigarette smoke.

The clock strikes noon and yet the office remains quiet as ever. Admiring you languidly from the comfort of his armchair, Albert recalls the formative days of your office basking when you said you detested his smoking. When you pointedly suggested that a window be opened, the ashtray be emptied, et cetera, et cetera. It was plainly obvious now that you had left that silly gripe in the past— or at least acquiesced his vexes. He regards you once more. You remain inert, glazed eyes hinting at your deepened thought. Albert notes that venerable beauty of yours, from the loose collar of your blouse to the graceful step of your gait: all poignantly embellished by his nicotine-scented haze.

His Circe, his étourneau, his muse.