Call her Indigo

She arrives on a rainy afternoon or a Saturday night or as you are pouring wine into only one glass. She places nostalgia on the table, spreading its white linen cloth. She lays out the fine china of insecurity and the silver of longing. Then she arranges a fresh bouquet of hopefulness and the air becomes a sigh of unspoken invitations. You did not ask for her to be there; her silence is disquieting. Still, you let her stay.