Your description of a breakfast argument with Adrian makes me want to laugh out loud! You conjure the scene for me, the sticky yellow dribbles as you pelt an egg and it explodes against the wall. I put your letter in my pocket and imagine you writing, a slight furrow in your brow as you lean over your page. I pick up my pencil and draw your face. I mark the almonds of your brows, the fine chiseling of your nose. I find pastels and shade the pearly rose of your skin, the green glints in your eyes. I add color to your lips, accentuate the bow I should so much like to kiss. I cannot wait until I see you again.

You come at last. I race to greet you. All day I have longed for you to arrive. Clive has arranged supper for us in the parlor so that we can escape the interrogations of his family. I loop my arm through yours as I escort you. You are wearing a dress I do not recognize, sea green and cut low at the neck. As we enter the parlor you seat yourself in one of the armchairs. Clive pours you a glass of wine.

“Here. You’ll need this after your journey.”

You take the wine and smile at Clive.

“Thank you. Actually I hardly noticed the journey. I had a new idea for that piece I sent you. You were right that the prose was too feverish. I spent the whole time rewriting it.”

I tell myself I should not be surprised if you want to talk to Clive about your work. For some time now the two of you have been corresponding about your novel. I know he encourages you. I rein in my desire to have you to myself and resolve not to interrupt.

“I’m glad my comments were helpful.” Clive pours two more glasses of wine and, after handing one to me, perches in the chair beside you.

“I’ve been trying to get back to the dream-like quality I had when I started it. I want to show that the men and women are different but I don’t want to preach. I quite agree that like God one shouldn’t. The effect I want is one of running water. Everything fluid and broad and deep.”

You look beautiful as you speak. You are leaning forward, your eyes lit with your vision. Your free hand gesticulates as if it is miming the water. I see that Clive is transfixed.

“There is no doubt your writing has a magical quality to it. Sometimes when I read you it’s as if I’m holding a live bird in my hand. I feel its heart beating, then look on in rapture as it opens up its wings and takes to the sky. There are very, very few writers who can do that.”