My fingers flow effortlessly across the keys, following the pattern they have learned so well. Toussaint is fretting over a layer of dust she has discovered on the mantle, and Papa's heavy breathing suggests he has dozed off in the armchair. Everything is normal.
Why is everything normal?
Shouldn't I see angels in the clouds and fairies in the bushes?
Every shadow on the wall, every voice on the street, should make my heart pound enough to fill my ears and my head. My thoughts should always be one Him, without my forcing them to be.
The first few days after my dream was real, I knew that I could fly if I spread my arms wide enough. I always knew that I fancied Him, but to think that he returned my affections! The thought gave me wings like an Angel. I felt I could soar over the gates and into the city and I found find Him. Would He really thinking of me? Is He thinking of me even now? Does He want to feel my fingers laced through his, my head resting upon his shoulder as much as I want to feel his lips pressed against my hand?
Those were the first few days. I loved for the evenings, for the squeak of the loosened bar and the rustle of the bushes as he slipped into my garden.
Now I expect it.
I still keep his letters near my heart. I have added my own page, and I write the sweetest things he tells me.
Perhaps his kindness has created a monster in me. We have known each other for nearly a month, and every evening we have met on the bench. He always tells me how he feels about me; certainly these words are as beautiful as his first poems.
Aren't they?
I can't be dissatisfied. I am always glad to see his pretty face and curly dark hair appearing in the evening.
Does the dream fade during the day?
The first time I saw him, my stomach turned warm with joy. Was it possible that He had written such words, taken such pains to find me? Me!
Will we be married?
I have dreamed that he kissed me in public, in front of Papa. In the morning I was giddy again.
Shouldn't I always be giddy?
That first night, when his fingers found my hand, I could think of nothing else but His touch. He began to lean toward me, and my mind began to race.
He was going to kiss me! What to do? His nose brushed mine, and then our lips were touching. I remember seeing his lashes upon his blushing cheeks, so close that my eyes crossed, and I instinctively drew my lips tight and kissed him in the same way I kissed Papa's cheek.
He smiled at me and squeezed my hand.
Was that all? It had been so awkward and brief.
He never did that again. I was happy to simply hold his warm hand and talk with him.
But then I noticed that I was doing all of the talking. I had chattered for weeks about my friends in the convent, about Papa—I even had to resort to describing the meals Toussaint prepared for dinner. He watched me, smiled at me, and nodded.
We are a routine.
Last night I willed myself to be quiet. I have said enough. I wanted to hear more of his life outside my garden.
He asked if I felt well.
I explained that I talked too much, and I was giving him a chance.
He told me that he liked to hear me talk.
We sat in silence. Until he told me that I am beautiful.
How sweet. What did you do today?
Nothing.
I briefly considered staying inside tonight. What would he do if I did not meet him? Would he look around, wait for a moment, and leave? Perhaps he would come to the house and spy into the windows, worried for my health and safety.
Why am I so dissatisfied?
Suddenly I am crying.
I leave the piano and hurry to my room, firmly closing the door and lying across my bed.
Of course I love him.
But I always expected love to be more.
Closing my eyes, I remember all of his finest moments. There are so many.
And when I open my eyes, it is dark. I quickly abandon the idea of staying in my room. I can't do it, knowing he is just outside, waiting for me. I arrange my hair.
He is sitting on the bench. His eyes speak of worry. For me?
He tells me that he cannot come to me tomorrow.
A night without seeing him, talking to him, letting him nod and squeeze my fingers! I cannot imagine! He holds out his arms and I collapse into them. Here is satisfaction! Here is warmth and comfort. I bury my face in his neck, my chin brushing his cravat, and we cling to each other.
And that is when I am positive that I love him.