Page 7

     Françoise's heart lifts from its tense prison of anticipation. Elation and excitement fill her stomach and she beams with relief as she reciprocates Angelisa's affectionate acceptance by gripping her hand. Angelisa leans to grab her pack and begins pulling things out; first a camera, then rolls of film and filters until finally she produces a notepad. She leafs through its busy pages and stops, lifting it up to eye level, and then turning to face Françoise begins to recite:

L'amour Fou, Memoires Faux

How is it that you glow
Lying, naked
Before me in the dark?

Your form fills the frame,
Curving, cutting
Rising and falling

But your soul.
(Liquid in life,
Flowing with each breath,

Your eyes - its guardians -
That stir passion
In my heart)

Your soul? Lost.
C'est une image seulement
De l'amour fou et mémoires faux

There is a long pause as Angelisa finishes her verse. The air is warm and peaceful. Françoise's brow wrinkles and she tips her head slightly, asking "Those last lines. What do they mean?"
      "Ah, so you just have a French name," jokes Angelisa, nudging her knee with a fist. "It's about a photograph. With a photograph you can capture a moment, an emotion, but it's really just a false memory. Unless you took the photo, you don't know what comes before or after. They're always incomplete. C'est une image seulement de l'amour fou et mémoires faux - just an image of mad love and false memories." "You wanted to capture this person's soul?"
      Angelisa raises her eyebrows slightly and nods, strengthening Françoise's comprehension of her idea with a focused stare. Françoise continues to contemplate, allowing the peaceful silence to grow, then with a spark, interrupts.
      "Hold on, I have one in my room that I want to read to you." And she jumps to her feet, lifting Angelisa with her and shoots off into the kitchen and out of sight. Angelisa smiles at her comic exit and stoops to the pile of logs by the dwindling fire. She plunks a few more on there, using the poker to position them until they quickly catch fire. Stepping out from the warmth she surveys the room and moves over to the bookcase by the window. Snow is still falling in thick flakes outside and she touches her finger to the glass and traces over the letters that have almost been swallowed by the persistent cold outside. An icy flow travels from her fingertip and enters her veins, quickly spreading through her body. Finishing her work she returns to the sofa and warms herself by the fire. The pattering of feet grows stronger until Françoise emerges from the kitchen with a single sheet of paper in her hand. She makes herself comfortable on the sofa and, checking that Angelisa is attentive, reads.