To Picasso's "Woman with a Book."

You cannot see me but I see you perfectly. Sitting there with a pensive expression and a slight half-smile staring off into space. Don’t turn around. My reflection is cast on the antique mirror that hangs behind you, behind the fancy red and orange chair you’re sitting in. I remember you told me once that was your favorite chair in the whole wide world because you found it at a yard sale for only ten dollars AND it smelled like roses no matter how many times you cleaned it… a miracle perhaps? You were always so superstitious. Everywhere we go I swear you see Jesus or Mary in puddles and pastries and bowls of soup. I’m sure there’s a more scientific explanation for this mystery fragrance. I think a mouse might have crawled up inside and died. Of course, I’m too nice to tell you this.

What are you reading? Don’t answer that, I think I already know.

I remember last year when you and I vacationed in Ibiza. A quaint little old woman running a quaint little old bookstand on a quaint little old street, I forgot the name but I remember we kept referring to it as “Ratton” because we counted about 20 rats... or were they small dogs? Anyhow, I bought you a copy of “The sun also rises.”

On the inside cover there should be an inscription that reads as follows:

Mija,

To undiscovered dreams and forgotten troubles.

-H.

What a beautiful day that was. The sun hung in the sky lazily farting its rays as we slowly walked up and down Ratton admiring the rich abundance of eclectic shops and various oddities. I remember the “talk” we had at that corner café which served the most delectable latte’s we’ve ever sipped... even to this day. What was our debate about? Who asked whom out on our first date? Van Gogh and Picasso? Freud and Jung?

That night, after dancing at the club, you and I made passionate love on the beach covered in sweat, wave upon crashing wave of drug-induced bliss. Shrink wrapped in total darkness save the soft radiance of the moon, and the dull, alien glow of our sticks. Your little book sat half-buried in the sand watching our frenetic going-ons...

...as I’m now sitting here watching you watching me somewhere in your distant thoughts.