Dear Iris [h.s]

epilogue two.

Iris Grace

It's the most beautiful day ever. I just stepped out of my shower, tossed on a white dressing gown and went to grab breakfast downstairs. It's a beautiful day though, absolutely gorgeous so I decided to have my breakfast upstairs on the balcony, let my hair air dry as the sun hits my skin.

I had myself a black coffee and croissant that I heated up, not that I really need to have anything warm for my breakfast on a day like this. Then I just sat there on my tiny little balcony, on that table and chairs in my dressing gown. I've never felt true peace like this.

There were a pack of cigarettes on the table too, but I didn't feel like having one right now, for some reason it feels like it would ruin the moment. I can't decide whether my smoking has gotten worse since moving here. There are some days where I smoke like a chimney and then the next day I convince myself that I've quit.

My friend Harold came and joined me on the balcony, he sat himself down on the other chair, but then moved to sit up on the window ledge behind me so he could knock his head off of me. He's so beautiful, and I don't even know if his name is Harold but that's what I called him.

My neighbour moved out and left her cat, so that pretty white furred cat became my best friend and now he lives here. I never knew his name to start with, so I just gave him a new one and for some reason, it was harold. Maybe that isn't very fitting for a beautiful white cat, maybe it would suit something like Penelope or Chanel, but I called it Harold.

I like talking to him, it makes me feel less lonely. He aso can't talk back, which is deeply depressing, however sometimes I think that it's a blessing. I think Harold would have a lot to say if he could speak to me.

"Sunny day isn't it Harold?" I said, giving his head a little rub as I took a bit of my croissant. "Today's gonna be a good day, do you think?"

Harold hopped off the window ledge and madehimselfomcfortbale on my lap, purring as he did so. Harold likes sitting in my kitchen, because that window is an absolute suntrap and he loves sunbathing. He also likes running around the studio knocking my jars of paint brushes over.

The doorbell rang just as I was about to take another bite from my croissant, and Harold looked at me as if he was laughing, saying that I had spoken too soon. It's not even 9 am yet, which is why I'm tempted not to go down there because I don't technically have to answer the door to people wanting to commission anything until 9am. However it could be the mailman, so with a sigh, down stairs I went.

I hope it's the mailman. If somebody is here to commission something and I open the door in my dressing gown and half dry hair. To be fair, my neighbours have seen me in much worse states, so it could be worse.

When I opened the door, there wasn't even anybody there. Maybe I'm paranoid, but Harold heard the doorbell too so I don't know what that was all about. There wasn't even anybody going around outside besides a couple down the road, and I very much doubt that they had rang my doorbell and run away.

However, just as I went to shut the door, I noticed something on the ground. It was that copy of Romeo and Juliet, that one that I left back at the studio. It was there, on the ground in front of me, it made its way back to me.

There was something really sad about that, the fact it was the book here and not anything else. However I guess that means this is really it, I was lying when I convinced myself I was leaving it there so that I could leave everything in the past. Why would I have written my address in something I wanted to leave in the past? I said if things wanted to find their way back to me, they would, and I guess maybe he doesn't want this play in his present either.