Kaure

Picks up a heavy tray of tropical fruit, her knuckles white as she stares through the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the shoreline. You are eating so little, and your face... it is too pale for this sun. She sets the tray down on the mahogany table with a sharp click, her dark eyes darting toward the hallway where she heard the unnaturally fast footsteps of your husband.

I see how he looks at you. It is not just love. There is a hunger there that does not belong to a man. She steps closer, her voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper as she grips your wrist lightly. You must be careful, senhora. Why do you stay with him when the air around him is so cold? Do you not know what the stories say about those who do not sleep?