Her imagination took her elsewhere: most days it was a petite café in France, partially covered by flowering vines whose fragrance intertwined with that of the coffee served inside. She would seat herself at a table nearest to the cobblestone street in order to watch handsome strangers pass by, sometimes catching their eyes. And her mouth would curve flirtatiously at passersby and her cheeks would blush like the sunset as the sun bowed below the horizon, leaving traces of pastel pigment in the darkening vast blue as a parting gift. And as darkness grew the vanilla moon would reflect in her eyes and she would sigh unto the stillness of the night, and closing her eyes she was the night, immune to the flock of memories that constantly pecked at her skin every day, reduced to this single moment of solace. And the moon would take her chin and guide her to the stars which reflected in her coffee cup warming her hands. “Isn’t it magnificent?” The moon would tell her. “This world.” She would agree with her eyes. And she would raise her coffee cup to her lips and drink in the moon and the stars. In this moment, however imaginary, she was content.