Nina was beautiful.

Her hair was like the blanket of night, pure shadow and darkness: ebony. Jack's wife loved Nina's hair, but her hair couldn't compare to her eyes. Jack's wife thought Nina's eyes looked like they had seen the world: they had a look to them, not a haunting look, but a glance that held a thousand stories. They were eyes that stared you down, defiant and free. They were eyes that enticed you to ignite in spontaneous thrills and adventures. They were eyes you fell in love with.

Jack's wife had grown accustomed to Nina's house. She spent most of her time there, for the pleasure of Nina's company. It was an escape from Jack, a daily (and much needed) vacation.

Nina sat across from Jack's wife, her legs daintily crossed over one another. She wore a loose shirt, probably some form of silk, that cut with a small 'v' in the middle of the swooping neckline. Two strings were attached on either side of the 'v', and at each fraying end there rested three beads: a blue, a black, and a brown bead. Small, wooden, with an intricate flower design hand-carved around them. Nina's only item of jewelry, besides a ruby ring encasing her left ringfinger, was a simple chain necklace. The chain was small and nimble, and reminded Jack's wife of a snake. On the chain, there was a single pendant. Jack's wife had never noticed what was inside.

"I could never be a writer," Jack's wife sighed, melancholy. Nina raised a thinning brow.

"Why not, dear?" Nina mused, taking a sip from her tea. The entire parlor was the typical classical style, with ornate furniture and doilies that Nina probably made herself. However, little cultural items were scattered about. Vases, spearheads, tiny little idols: all souvenirs from Nina's world travel.

"Oh," Jack's wife gripped the hem of her shirt nervously. "I haven't lived enough of life, for one. Other than that, I don't think I have the talent. Not like Jack."

"Jack's a good writer then?"

"Well, I don't actually know."

"How could you not know?"

"I've never read anything he's written." Jack's wife looked up at Nina, and suddenly remember that she wasn't talking to the beautiful young woman in the photographs and magazines, but an old woman who was still beautiful, but in a different way. Jack's wife often forgot how old Nina was, and how aged her face was. Nina said this was because Jack's wife was a dreamer, and didn't like to face reality. Truthfully, the reason Jack's wife was so content with imagining Nina as the younger version, was because it gave Jack's wife a sense of adventure. Nina was almost too old to be spontaneous with Jack's wife, and to go on fun adventures--74 is not the age to be traveling, especially not when you aren't in the prime of health, unbeknownst to Jack's wife--but if Jack's wife saw the younger Nina when she looked at the ancient, wrinkled face, perhaps there was still hope. Hope that maybe she could be friends with Nina like the girls in Nina's memory: a sidekick, but a happy sidekick.

Nina sighed, shaking her head. "Then why would you call him a writer? Has he even written anything?"

"Well--" Jack's wife paused. "I don't know."

Nina laughed bitterly. "I suppose none of us know our husbands as well as we're intended, right?"

Jack's wife shrugs, and turns to look out the window. There was a draft slithering in, from the chilled air outside. Nina's windows were never shut all the way, which confused Jack's wife, because most elderly enjoyed high temperatures and loathed the way the cold made their already creaking bones squeak just a wee bit louder.

"Writers are terrible people to be married to," Nina mumbles, stroking the cool glass of a picture-frame that had materialized in her lap. Jack's wife felt like every time she was with Nina: the world took on dream-like rules for the universe. Time moved slow, or it jumped around. Maybe all it was, was that Jack's wife didn't pay much attention to the outside world. Years of practice had helped her safely retreat within herself.

Nina continues. "You could be a writer, if you wanted. You have imagination, like everyone else. Of course, imagination is best with fiction, and people without it can easily just write non-fiction. I bet you'd be a mix of both. Maybe poetry? Hmm. Maybe not." Nina looks up at Jack's wife, her shocking blue eyes snaring Jack's wife's attention. "Anyone can be a writer, my dear. Everyone is a writer. Because writing is the easiest thing in the world: all you have to do is know what to say."

Jack's wife smiles, opening her mouth to speak. She closes it again. She repeats this, and on the fifth try she finally finds something to say.

"I just don't understand humanity."

Nina laughs.

"Oh, I doubt that. I think you're just afraid, because you understand humanity all too well."