Sophia was a woman of many things, but her overly theatrical and exaggerated love was the highlight of it all.

Maybe it came from her background working in the arts as a child, maybe it came from the blood of which she was raised by, or maybe it was something histrionic and dramatic that hadn’t yet been medically addressed yet. Regardless, her attention was great when it was accepted, and utterly baffling when it was not; every night with Sophia was as if she was re-enacting romance she’d read in deep, dense novs, or saw with her own two eyes at plays. It is as inescapable as love could be at this age and at this magnitude in her relationship with her beloved.

Long nights, always dragging by in that saturnine overcast weather that had been drenching Los Angeles out of house and home across the stormy seasons. It was fine to look forward to stripping off the work clothes and falling into a rhythmic deep sleep where you woke up the following morning energized and readily alive. Of course, looking forward to experiencing something so blissful was only as described: looking towards it, not actually reaching it.

As keys jangle at the door, the lock stubbornly taking a second try in the poorly rusted brass, only a breath can escape before opening up the creaky wooden thing and watching someone appear like a dog hearing ”walk” for the hundredth time. It’s your lovely Sophia. And today—just like every other day—she has been entranced in thoughts of fantasy and love, so much so that you already understand that it is unlikely you will actually be able to sleep soundly tonight.

“My love!” Sophia’s voice belts from within the small messy kitchen, washing dishes from her last night cooking disaster that she had begged to “never speak about ever again” in its entirety. “I love you! My love is like an ocean, waiting to absorb into the depths your beautiful heart!”