Before the wind came nothing could have compared to her southern elegance. Folding, fluffing, her arms flexing with bewitching ease, she had dressed her cherry-wood bed in immaculate linens. Perfect pillows set, she had done twiddling her many statuettes, and her delicate photo frames, and her votive vases, poising each like puppets for a king's muse. She had done fiddling with her velvet green drapes till not one furl was out of place. Streams of western sun splashed through her fine silk curtains. Like crisp clean music, sunlight tinted her serene room in a mischievous mood. She turned and saw that her bed was impeccable. She took one deep breath and smiled.

Every thing was perfect. Fine wine. Chocolate truffles.

Now she leaned forward to inhale the subtle scent of her sprite lilies, which she had rested by the note she left for Basil.

She lifted her head again, and saw herself framed in the Argentine mirror, a gift from her mother now dead.

She saw herself resplendent, perfectly ready.

And at the base of the mirror was etched her name: Beryl.

Whack!

Huh? Damn!

Whack! Whack!

That brutal gust slammed her window shut, shimmering her curtains like sprinkled diamonds, parting them just wide enough to reveal Basil's car easing into her garage.

Inexplicable nostalgia rushed from Beryl's hips through to her breasts in immense waves, lifting and falling, flooding her whole.

Exhaling inelegant puffs, she watched him.

Tall. Confident. Bold.

Passion boiling in her blood till joy contrived hope her thoughts stirred, fast, faster still, then slow, slower still, to a calm.

Her newly moistened lips hinted a warm smile defrosting her size seven feet and pretty toes.

She hastily made one step, then two, then three, towards the yawning door.

No!

She backtracked.

Be patient.

She selected two lilies from the tall green vase, rested one on each cased pillow, and when the back of her tender hand dusted imaginary lint from her spanking Duvet covers, the front door clicked. Her breath snapped. Her thick crop of red hair swung like a dancer's skirt assailing her passionate beauty. She inhaled once, exhaled thrice, like chords of a discordant tune. Face and form flushed, her attitude moaned. Eyes silent, her breasts heaved above her echoing chest. And she hoped. Maybe, just maybe, that ancient whisper of her name, Beryl, will float across her room, for in such a whisper heaven would open its door without regret. And her heart wouldn't pound so incredibly loud!

Again I should have warned her: "Don't! Dark, dark secrets connive to corrupt pure intent." But I couldn't.

We were specifically forbidden.

Her eyes twinkled. And for the presence of my spirit, which erred in its lustful excitement, her seven candles flickered. She thought it some strange wind seeping through some unknown crack, or some hobgoblin silence stirring in the hollow of her walls beckoning her to move more quickly than she thought it necessary to proceed, or some lost Ann Rice creature gasping for sweeter breath.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

The wind, like a knife, sharp!

Then silence, like the silence of a lamb!

Then darkness, swift, velvet thick, and thudding!

Soon, a milky light came, soft, and silent, and opalescent.

And she saw herself in that Argentine mirror, alone, in the middle of an unexplained place.

Gorgeous!

Oh, she was worth every longing look!

My ally, the Archangel, spun twice on seeing her.

At first glance, twenty-three: she was still fresh.

At second glance, no more than twenty-nine: she was still lush.

I knew the truth.

Thirty-nine!

Still much a prize! Still not yet cursed with her mother's form and fullness. Still a dreamer! Still sparking envy in women who think her to have it all. "Blessed!" Some say. Still evoking flattering sentiments from wild men who, not yet discerning youth's vanity, plow battered ball-fields in search of youth's virility - few achieve it!

"God! If my woman looked like that, I won't be playing no softball, I'd be home taking-care-a-that." She overheard one beefy youth-seeker comment as if from some depth through the mirror he could see her jogging by.

Another likewise smitten loser gaped at her like a dumbstruck fool instead of paying heed to the pitcher and the batter and the baseball. Ssssss-whack! The slammed baseball stopped on his chest. Whump! He choked. And crouched. And lost another game. "God-damn!"

And yet a third horny-brained bozo exclaimed with dog-panting lustiness, "O-la-la, me-mama-meea!"

I greatly erred in giving this bozo instant back pain to save his dirty mind from fornicating torture and his pennies from Texas divorce court's tax. What waste! For this gratis care he cursed me twice: "Damn, you! Damn, you!" screeching from his innermost hurt.

Oh, the ingratitude of mankind! Small comfort he did not know it was me he cursed, not his blasted back. Ingratitude, worse than serpents' teeth! Humans!

Though I would lose valuable points for these feisty intrusions, I decided I would guide Beryl safely back. She was not quite ready for plucking. Not quite yet!

How needless that sex should tear so many great men down leaving history to waste in clear view of not-so-stupid men!

Beryl heard her own thoughts think, and scratching past the surface of the mirror, entering, she came to realize she knew things: great things, deep things. Like, lust is not sin merely by Divine Declaration! Lust vibrates in the gravel of shallow longing. Lust is as much sin to soul as a sumptuous course to a dehydrated child: this sin corrupts not from need, but from mistimed want.

I also did not understand what she was moralizing about until I saw the flaw in mortal sinew and felt her courage and her daring.

She dared!

She studied her thoughts further: the solution to humanity's centric malady hides in the psychology of sex. That's right! That's right! Solomon's Secrets reveal it.

Beryl was privy to Solomon's Secrets.

She continued exploring her thoughts and pondered: Solomon did do some things right. Didn't he?

I could have laughed at her.

Instead, I smiled. And upon my immortal soul, right there and then, though better senses might have prevailed her not to enter deeper into that mirror, I watched her cross the first veil. I decided, for her demonstrable bravery, I would let her explore, then I would guide her safely back home. But it will take time. It will take some time. She is of strong will.

Understand the psychology of sex and all else in life is cheesecake, she heard her thoughts express. What better is there to seek than the way to a joyous, purposeful, meaningful life? Isn't that normal? Yet nations have tumbled because they lost their way.

She looked deeper, and deeper, and saw through the opalescence.

In her sun-splashed room, unmindful of history, unaware of me, and caring less about others' condemnation, Beryl palmed her bald bedpost. She licked her lips. And listened to Basil's approaching footsteps: measured, strong, steady, stern, getting steadily closer.

Overcome by fresh grace and elegance, she traced long fingers through her fiery hair, contemplating how, when Basil enters her queenly chamber, she might fondle his lapel to lure him into her warmth. She reflected how she might remind him of the good old days then teach him of better days to come, how she might encourage him to go to the seminar and return to enjoy the fruit of a good life.

She shook her hair in place, nose held high, and tickled herself with broad smiles.

Why should hypocrites be the prime interpreters of truth?

Why should I let scare-mongers mimic the voice of God?

Enough! This is my man, my husband.

She let her thoughts play wicked games in her mind.

Beryl waved her itching thoughts aside to fix one lily straight.

As yet Basil had not entered her room. He had paused to check his mail, and dilly-dallied so long, patience began to stretch Beryl's nerve. And time wavered like fiddling breeze.

Across the meadows beyond the sparse trees the sun slowly descended its daily arc. I laughed knowing that arousal is a quite a complex beast. And mischief, elsewhere, was afoot.

What's he up to?

Beryl peeked through the crack of her yawning door and saw Basil tossing her mail into the trash.

What?

Her patience snapped. Her breath stopped. Her soul dropped clear to her sump, and bounced, almost popping her mind.

The embers of her hell began to burn, as if she could feel every pinch, and tear, and pound through her trembling flesh. Yet she waited with uncomfortable patience, simmering slowly, preferring him on her turf, willing him to her turf.

She waited.

Then he came.

By then it was much too late!

Now, not fully ten minutes, her tender arms and hands assert with belligerent animation, pounding pillows, jerking sheets, making and re-making the cherry wood bed with swinging, staccato movements. Her phone rings like a dance of dust, yet her eyes, fully transformed red, matching rose red lips are not deterred. And vexed, fully vexed, she speaks twice as fast, like an indignant cackling hen, her glib tongue rambling blind through slippery paths, her guttural German creeping courageously back into her American rage. Her gracious spirit long faded.

Fool!

The phone gives up. But Beryl does not!

Not this time!