There are four white walls and a cement floor. There are not four white walls and a cement floor. In her hair I can smell the wind in the tall grass.
That is where I find her again, on the hillside of tall grass overlooking the quaint village nestled in the Laurentian Mountains. The air is brisk but not cold. She acts as if she doesn’t see me; I know I’ve hurt her feelings.
“Perhaps you are not real,” she says into the wind, “perhaps you are a figment of my fevered mind.”
“Then why would we meet here? You’re not even Canadian.”
“Neither are you,” she countered.
“Yes, but I’ve been here.”
“I thought we already established that no amount of logic can conclusively out fox a mind’s capacity to self delude.”
I could not answer right away. I looked out over the small village, St. Jovite, and wondered at its defiant existence in comparative isolation.
“Must you always turn my words against me?” I asked and started down the hill towards the old mill. And then I was gone, and she was left with four white walls.