I see her sitting there, in a brown leather chair. A simple green dress, and a tiled balcony. All she does it sit, and breathe and so I sit and I breathe with her. Her tea is steaming, the sent of chamomile mixes with saltwater and a thin layer of smoke draping itself over the horizon. And she just sits there, taking everything in, ever so peacefully. Her blonde-gold hair sways in the breeze just a little bit. Sometimes she adjusts her legs and I hear the cushion stretch under her weight. The sun spews its light over her face, her chest, and her brown leather chair. She sits there with nothing but her tea, the sunrise, and my company. It’s 5:22 in the morning, all I can wonder is what she might be wondering about. I won’t ask, I won’t disturb her. The sun is pulling itself further and further up into the sky, and as it does she sips at her tea. She seems to enjoy just sitting quietly, her mind off in a different realm. Somehow, she keeps me here, wholly. My body, my mind stagnant, appreciating only her. Portuguese wind carries butterflies across a Spanish ravine and still, she has my full attention. She’s been here for some time now and I wonder just how comfortable can a leather chair be? But it is worn in, as is she. And anything worn down after time tends to be comfortable. So all we do is sit, in heat, in comfort, and in each other’s company.
