A Mistress of Sorts

This morning the miraculous milkmaid was nursing Jeanette Babette behind the bamboo screen in our salon. It has the painted figure of a mandarin and a woman holding a parasol, a butterfly in her hair. They are crouching next to a stream that runs underneath a small arched bridge, at the point where the paint has started to peel. I saw Johannes pause for a moment before he passed, looking solemn and sad, as if he wished to be on the other side of the screen.
Our daughter grows apace while he and I are like two old hats lying side by side on a shelf in the cupboard. Now that is intimacy.