Isabelle is her name. She lives in a country in the far north, serenely beautiful. It is just that the winter there is too long for a dreamer of sunsets and sandy beaches. Far too frequently, she longs for a retreat somewhere on a Greek or Canary Island. At this moment, she is quietly counting down the cold days. It is 7 March. Snowflakes are dancing outside the window, hither and thither, no sign of spring. Not yet.
Her room is not tidy. Layers of books on the floor waiting in silence, “will it be my turn this evening?” Bling Willow, Sleep Woman, Murakami’s mysterious work whispers to Joyce’s dark Dubliners. “It depends on her mood, certainly it does.”
Woolf’s puzzling The Waves does not join in the conversation. Her faint smile is barely visible in half-darkness.
She loves cafés but rarely drinks coffee. She drinks tea, plenty of tea, with soy or oat milk. Breathing in the fragrance of freshly brewed espresso and cappuccino, she reads and writes in those old charming places, sometimes with a sea view. She feels perfectly contented, thinking, “I should get myself a cup of coffee.” She lifts the flowery porcelain cup to her lips and sips it, her hot black tea.