The only thing certain about her is her unpredictability. She might appear in the middle of the night, as quiet as a cat, or arrive suddenly in a rainstorm with not a drop of water on her. She vanishes as unexpectedly as she appears. There’s nothing about her I understand, except that she is mischievous and she disdains clothing. Also, she refuses to speak.
I wonder what attracted her to the balcony. Sunlight and a warm wind from Africa blowing across the Mediterranean ? An echo of the bells that used to ring from the broken towers across the bay? She glances at me with customary amusement and holds up the mirror.
Then I remember the only time she ever spoke, many years ago. I had asked her for her name. She came close and, unless I am mistaken, she whispered: “Names are nouns. I am a verb.”