Stanzie was bored, and being bored completed none of her assignments nor did she take the tray into the kitchen again like she was supposed to. It sloshed white wine and mushrooms, porcini and shitake and button, thyme and chicken juices, dangerously near the floor. She stared into the fire, thinking how like a sauna it was, how lovely it was, how she hardly need go outside or travel to the southern hemisphere ever again. She had positioned herself, though, at the lip of the wave, and being born of salt composed of water was pleased enough to drown and not to drown, the thought of it, made her heart sink just a little. No, more than a little. The hours passed by and yet she did not venture

Heartsick, lovesick, sick of love, Shakespeare, poetry, food and wine