Sunlight tumbled into the second-floor bedroom like a kitten playing with a ball of golden-yellow string. Mourning doves preened and cooed on the balcony beyond the open French doors overlooking the green and lush Hudson River Valley. A midsummer breeze kissed the white cotton curtains as if a genteel Southern gentleman had so graced them.

Camille awoke slowly. Very slowly. The surface of the bed undulated slowly as her feet found comfortable cools spots under the blankets. Her legs moved slowly. Her slender torso twisted slowly. Her arms and shoulders caught the wave and, slowly, twisted and stretched. Her eyelids fluttered open, ever so slowly.

The note from Jasper, pinned on his now cold and vacant pillow, said it all:

"I love you, Camille, my darling, but I cannot stay.
I must leave you to find my true self.
I am going to New Gersey.
Love, Jasper."

Camille read the note and refolded it, placing it as she had found it. She sat up and stared unblinkingly into near-space for several long seconds. When she finally came out of her reverie, she spoke. Her voice was clear and determined, though throaty from a night of sex, cigarettes and scotch.

"Jasper," she said, "you were a great lover and I shall always love you. But you can't spell worth SHIT!"