Living on the coast of a search for El Dorado, I sit high on my chair to ensure the best of the balcony’s view and good proximity to my after-lunch glass of white. Yeah, a blinding day and I’m as high as that criminal who escapes from a rooftop by painting himself blue to match the sky. Orlando and I have a meeting about a piece of writing. His head is down reading and his hands are making scary slashes over my words. I am waiting now for the oasis, the oracle, the outcome, when it sinks in that I have taken a wrong turn. She off’d herself with blueing agent, I think.Or, was it that she collected multiple bottles of arsenic in blued glass bottles? She was the lady of house, tsk, so no laundry hands for her! Orlando looks at me with a face that makes me feel the awful everything: You are so romantic, he says. He sighs. I turn myself ripe into the heat of the sun-pointed balcony where the metal floor scorches the feet. Do you mean romantic or Romantic, I ask him, but I’m angled so that it will be impossible see his face answering.