Aleta has hair the color of dark honey. It is long and thick and usually piled on top of her head. Her eyes are hazelnut brown and her skin is apricot. She has the kind of body that should always be lounging on a chaise longue, and spilling out of a silk peignor. In fact she is wearing a rip off Adidas t-shirt and track pants, and is making breakfast for both of us.
“You’ve been sick” she says, opening a jar of homemade cherry jam, unctuous and damson-dark. From the fridge, she takes a large pan of milk–we know the cow personally–and begins to spoon the top of the milk into a smaller pan. She puts two saucers and spoons on the table next to the basket of bread she just picked up from the bakery. She spoons the cream into the saucers and indicates I should add a nail polish streak of syrup from the jam. The bread is crusty and still warm. Aleta dips and swirls each piece of bread slowly to soak up the most cream. People would pay to watch her satisfaction as she eats. She refills her saucer twice. I hope she will go back to bed after this, but probably she will clean out the chickens and do the laundry, just like she does every day.