Between our morning coffee and lunch, we sit on the terrace. The Mirna valley basks in sunlight. “Go write something,” my beloved suggests after a few minutes. “Nah,” I reply and kiss her hand. A short while later, I remember that it would be good to put my futon on the terrace parapet so that it could dry from last night, when I was sweating profusely. When I bring it down and stretch it along the sunlit parapet, my beloved perks up again: “You could write something about your wet futon!” I just smile and kiss her hand again. And then I reach for the glass of wine next to my lounge chair to discover bird shit on its side. “I saw something falling from the sky,” I chuckle, “but I thought it was an insect.” “Hey,” my beloved exclaims, “you must write about this!” I shake my head, and get up to wash the glass. On my way back to the terrace, I pick up my laptop from the dining table and bring it with me. My beloved decides to pack, though. “Write inside,” she suggests as she gets up from her lounge chair and heads for the house. “There’s too much light on the terrace.” Alas, my eager muse will be leaving just after lunch.