The lovers were late to wake up. Weston found his parents dressed and ready for a breakfast which they had already made.

Charles stared at Weston with an amused stare, “have a seat Weston, you look like you ran a marathon.”

Alice smiled knowingly.

Tilda arrived a few minutes later as everyone settled at the table. She dressed in one of Weston’s long tee-shirts alone. The woman’s long legs were all the writer’s gaze followed as Tilda came to sit. Tilda did not seem to mind the Edmonds presence.

Weston blushed in her stead, but it seemed he was the only person embarrassed.

“Tea?” Alice asked once Tilda was seated.

“Oh, I’ll have one,” Charles said, “have you got some cinnamon Weston I sugar no more?”

“Oh, you don’t?” Weston asked, surprised. His father had a sweet tooth, Charles could whiff anything with sugar a mile away. Weston could not imagine his father living without his daily consumption.

“Doctors orders, diabetes surveillance,” Alice answered.

Alice’s words made Weston recall when Tilda took the cinnamon and the bewildered look she had when Weston asked if she liked it.

Here Weston did not see Tilda put some; she drank neither tea nor coffee.

“Weston, dear, can you pass me the honey?” Alice asked.

Weston looked at Tilda, who smiled, as usual, once again the hairs on his body stood out making him shiver.

Tilda knew a lot about him, almost anticipating every whim, but what made him a little uneasy now was she seemed aware of things concerning his family. Details small like grains of sand, but when added up certain things or said Tilda did leave Weston with substantial interrogation marks.

The breakfast was barely over that Weston’s parents announced their departure.

“Dad, say something you can’t leave now.”

Weston whined as he followed them to the door.

“Oh, we are not going to hold you, two kids, up,” Charles said.

“You’re not bothering,” Tilda added, hoping to unknot the situation. She appreciated the Edmonds, and she would not have minded spending the day in their company.

Alice lightly pinched Tilda on the cheek and locked her in a hug, “next time, come and see us.”

There were definite signs of complicity between the two women, which reassured Weston about the decision he took. The Edmonds adopted the singer; the writer could not be happier to see how everything perfectly slotted together.

Old Weston would have panicked, wondering how and why he deserved such love and peace; the new Weston accepted what he thought was God’s gift feeling blessed to have all these things in abundance.

Ten minutes later, a taxi waited for the Edmonds downstairs.

Alice hugged Tilda once more, “See you soon, dear.”

“Courage, son,” Carles whispered in Weston’s ear while gently tapping him on the back.

The Edmonds climbed in the cab with hearts and conscious weighing less than when they arrived.

“Tilda is such a delight; I like her so, what do you think of her, Charles?”

Charles smiled as he recalled his walk with Weston, “Tilda is charming, and our son is earnest about her.”

“Tilda has nothing to do with Susanna; I always felt like Susanna forced herself with us. It’s a good thing they broke up. Oh, I wish Tilda would become my daughter-in-law, wouldn’t that be nice, Charles?” Alice said while releasing a long sigh.

“Well, you won’t have to wish for long,” Charles replied, giving his wife a wide grin.

“Well, there you have it; you’ve met the starting point of Weston Edmonds.”

“I love them,” Tilda replied.

“Come here.”

Tilda advanced to Weston’s outstretched arms. There she was again, in his warmth, wrapped and cocooned.

“We’ve got til 2 PM then the car-.”

“I know, lets just sleep,” Weston said.

Love gave Weston wings and made him lazy; the writer’s new hobby was procrastinating in bed with Tilda. The singer’s schedule was complicated; she ran about so much that for Weston, these little naps were deserved.

The nap was anything except resourcing, Weston’s sleep was a succession of dreams which reeked blood. If it was not the bath scene where Tilda bled, he watched her gulp down Whiskey, vodka, puke, cry and start again. She devoured pills by dozens as if they were m&ms. Weston screamed, waking up drenched in sweat.

“Weston, are you okay?”

Weston locked Tilda in a hug; his skin clung to hers, glued by the sweat of his fright. Tears rolled down Weston’s eyes; it seemed so real, it was real and worse than other dreams he had. Once again, here they were together and happy.

When did, or were these things going to occur?

Weston’s thoughts raced all these visions had a purpose which he had to discover. There were many images every time which came to Weston’s mind, sometimes good; sometimes bad, Weston needed answers.

First, he needed to calm his nerves, and he found himself in Tilda’s arms, and she sang for him while caressing his hair.

At every instant, Tilda knew how Weston felt as if she read his mind. This attention reassured and scared the man who Tilda rocked to sleep with her gentle voice.

How could he doubt her?

Tilda was the best thing that had ever happened in his life.

Weston was asleep as she got ready for a radio talk show after she had another concert. The man watched her put on her sneakers; she dressed casually jeans, t-shirt, and no makeup she looked like a teen; in an hour she would be transformed the wands and pencils of the makeup artist and stylists.

A hint of jealousy consumed Weston as he thought of the men she would encounter or those behind their screens. Weston didn’t even want to see what they conjured up in their imagination. The writer had never been in this position; of course, he dated pretty women but dating someone conscious that the person occupied the thoughts of so many people was a real challenge.

“I love you, and I only see you,” Tilda said, reeling Weston back into their reality.

It took Weston a second to assimilate what she said, how did she know what he was thinking, how could she pronounce the words he needed to hear? Weston thought as she placed a kiss on his nose.

“See you later Meine Liebe.”

Tilda left.

“Déja Vu,” Weston whispered.

Another perfect and peaceful day, Weston swam in an ocean of bliss. The writing was effortless, the words and paragraphs knitted together themselves.

Weston slid back on his chair; the house was silent though he was not alone.

What was Tilda doing?

Seated on the bed, Tilda folded Weston’s T-shirts, restarting until she was satisfied with the format. Tilda paused and looked towards the window, three more days was all she had left, just three measly days. “It’s better than nothing,” Tilda whispered.

“Speaking to yourself?” Weston asked.

The singer did not hear his arrival or notice Weston had been observing her for five minutes.

“Oh, when did you arrive?”

“Just now,” Weston replied.

“How did your call with Micheal go?”

“He likes the plot idea.”

“Good, that’s great,” Tilda said, smiling.

Weston looked at the pile of t-shirts in front of her, “you don’t need to do that, Iㅡ.”

The man stopped and frowned, Tilda folded precisely the way he did and stacked the t-shirts by color and collar form. Without any tutoring, Tilda knew, for Weston, this was too much.