The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. She passed down the stairs and into the street. The trip took a full day. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. ‘It is not your affair. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. She could not feel her own body.
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