She took a delicate sip of coffee, her luscious bottom lip smudging the outer edge of the mug. Both of her hands firmly grasped it, as if she relied on its emanating heat to warm her up on a sunny day of a hundred degrees. The sun blazed down on us like a dreary alarm, and the wind was of no aid in soothing it.

I once asked her how she could bear the heat, since she was always wearing luxurious sweaters no matter what time of the year it was; and she simply said “I’m always cold darling,” brushing it off with her hand, as if it were some typical physical trait, like blue eyes.

And what blue eyes she had, as clear and blue as the silent summer sky above. And silent were her eyes as well: once windows perhaps, now walls nevertheless. Those eyes could change hues of blue in unison with the sky. But she never did look at the sky: she was always too busy with what was in front of her.

She set her coffee cup down gently, and I noticed the perfect imprint of blood-red lipstick decorating the rim of the mug. She examined my terrace swiftly with her eyes to check if anything had changed: she liked to notice change—no, more than that, she needed to; the one thing she abhorred above all else was lingering. She would surely rather die than be caught living in the past.

Her blonde hair was pinned up today in a lazy fashion. She wore her usual subtle smile, suggesting she had a secret that no one would ever hear about. A thick layer of mascara coated her lashes, and a large dose of powder covered her nose and face. The end result appeared unusually natural, as if excess suited her.

She wore a grey cashmere sweater of some expensive brand or other, and I still wondered how not a single drop of sweat stained her skin. Her face would never grow red from the heat (and she did not blush, not ever); on the contrary, her pale complexion revealed the slightest shade of blue, although her make-up covered it quite well.

"Hey, buster, snap out of it. You know we have a rule: no reflecting. You can admire and ruminate over the little details of life on your own time," she said firmly, grabbing her white purse (of yet another expensive brand I couldn't bother recalling). "Besides, if you focus on nothing but details, you'll never notice the big picture."

"Oh, I notice the big picture alright. I just find it much too gruesome to pay attention to."

“I suppose you're right. But don't you ever listen to me? I've told you time and again, details are for the dead. It's all about sensations, darling, you simply must learn to live in the moment, because someday you'll be searching through your memory for the finer moments — and you better have some stored, ‘cause you never know what storms might lie ahead — and then what will you do when you realize you've never felt a thing in your entire life? Just observed… Frankly it's all quite absurd, how you refuse to accept the facts of life,” she said matter-of-factly, rummaging through her purse vigorously, eventually finding a pack of menthols. “And what's that other thing I say? Help me out darling… Oh! Future is futile. That's it! And it rings true, mister. There's nothing admirable about those who spend their entire lives waiting for it to begin. And notice the word spend, dear: life is about purchases, and time is its currency. You mustn't wait, not even for a second! It's such a waste, don't you know. And don't get me started on plans, all these people and their plans! Well there's a hard truth awaiting them that they'll have to swallow and digest, just like the rest of us. And that, my dear, is that life is what's between the planning, and seeing as death is the destination, it's every plan's destiny.” A wicked smile ruled her face as she enunciated each word in an exaggerated manner: I couldn’t help but grimace.

“You know I will never agree with that.”

"Well, be that as it may, I was in the middle of my story! Do you mind?" A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she gestured for me to light it. I obliged and she continued.

“So anyways, I stormed out of his house, leaving behind a righteous mess. And you best believe me when I say he deserved it. He was a ruddy scoundrel, simple as that. I mean the first rule of being a proper gentleman is that you keep your promises! He promised to keep surprising me, and he failed to deliver. So of course, after I left his place I rushed right on over to fifth avenue to max out his credit cards before he could cut me off—"

“You truly are something else.”

“Hush up darling, I’m not finished yet. So, just as I was trying on these most delightful black leather heels in Bergdorf Goodman, a tall handsome man came up to tell me he had been admiring me from a distance (oh he just gushed about how radiant and splendid a sight I was!) and that he’d love to take me out. Well, how could I refuse such an offer, put forth so gently by such kind, hazy hazel eyes? So he took me for a drink, he took me for a dance, and the longer I spent with him, the dizzier I became as I fell deeper and deeper into his heavenly hazel eyes. By two in the morning I was in such a daze, and he kept me so lightheaded with his touch, that I was in a mood for something outrageous. So I told him let's do something stupid! Well, he was practically heaving with excitement as I'm sure all kinds of dirty thoughts rushed through his mind. But before he could say anything I elaborated that I wanted something radical. Not just anything would do (you know this too well darling, don't you). He asked me what I thought, and I told him it's my game, I came up with it, it was his job to play it. Surprise me, I said with my most ravishing voice, my hands in his hair, making it as messy as I could (you can picture it, can't you, love?). He had to think for a moment, but after he had gulped down his umpteenth whiskey glass, an almighty spark of revelation lit his smile aflame (his lips burned me when he kissed me, I swear to it!). Before I could guess what he was about to do, he got down on one knee to propose—what? Stop looking at me like that. I mean, it can’t come off as much of a shock! It was, after all, a game of surprises. Sure, he didn’t have a ring, and at the time of inebriation I couldn’t really recall his name… but what a surprise it was! And when I said yes, the look on his face, the way he kissed me, the way he embraced me, the sweet promises he whispered into my ear, oh! It made me so very happy!”

A strikingly genuine smile warmed up her face, which truly did come off as a surprise, as it occurred so rarely. But it only lasted a few fleeting moments, as the crystal clear image of that embrace, along with the ecstatic sensation it released, faded from memory’s grasp into a blurred headliner to be stored for future reference. A somber expression soon set in, but only briefly; for when she saw me staring at her, her subtle smile quickly made its comeback — still suggesting she had a secret, one that sought to burst out of her in a heated fit of truth. But it was clear that it would be forever stored safely like a lump in her throat.

I know your secret. I thought. But you'll never admit it. And neither will I.

And I couldn’t blame her for her silence. She was too stubborn to ever admit the stimulus required to satisfy her experience was an echo from reality that only grew further and further, louder and louder — and she clinged to the blare for dear life, without a care for where she might land next. Stability was a sin in her scripture, and anyone who claimed otherwise didn’t know how to live life to the fullest. But what are brief glimpses of ecstasy to the blind searches in between? Enough? No.

Never.

“Well? What do you think?” Her gaze was waxing with anticipation, for my opinion meant a great deal to her (why this was, I never could understand).

If I were to say the truth, I would tell her she was out in a blizzard, and her question was the rasp of her numb fingers against the door of my fireplace cabin — and that what she wanted out of my answer was to lock the door.

But I would never say such things. I could never break our rule. Reflection is damnation. Denial is a game that never ends, with no winning or losing, only illusion or death. Intent is blasphemy, and accidents are holy. Consequence is the blaze that never sweats her brow, and blue is the blindness she settled for, her choice of weapon against the silences in between. Sheets covered her mirrors and I was tired of pulling them down.

And so I played along with her secret. As I always do now.

“Whatever makes you happy.”