On a peaceful afternoon, she sat by the window and dreamt awake/day dreamt. Her face resting on her hand, her elbow laying on the armrest, her frail figure half poised on the chair, she shut her eyes in search for brief respite.
In her hands, the pages of her book flew on their own, following the melody of the wind whistling through the ajar window. Inspired by the character of Mme Bovary, she had wanted to read more of the book today. After she dealt with her chores, the children, and the other maid in the household where she works, she fixed herself a cup of tea and wandered in the living room before she found a comfortable place to open the novel.
There, she sat by the bouquet of red roses and smiled while she shed her work blouse and realised her shirt was of the same colour as the crimson petals. This was not her first time sitting on the wicker chair, under the painted portrait of her mistress. She opened the faded pages of the book she borrowed from one of the library shelves, tilted her head up in direction of the bright blue sky, and sighed.
As she delved into the passion and romance of the story, her attention slowly shifted towards her own imaginary tales.
In her mind, she would go upstairs and fill the suitcase hidden underneath the bed with a couple of shirts, skirts and a cardigan. She would hasten towards the front door , adjusting her hat and coat with a suspicious glance to the kitchen and the living room to avoid arousing attention. She would head to the direction of the train station and buy a ticket to Berlanton.
Comfortably seated in the train, she would take her book out, the same one she fell asleep on, and read. At times, she would lift her head up and stare out of the window, to the familiar landscapes, the meadows of her childhood. She would taste the clafoutis of her mother, the succulent sugary taste of the cherries coated with the batter of fresh butter and milk.
The rays would find their way to her skin and diffuse warmth through her cheeks and hands. A sense of joy would surge from her heart. An almost forgotten sensation. She would know she made the right choice. She is returning home.