Mirabelle walked through the French doors of the grand old plantation house, into the sultry evening heat, and saw John, gazing blankly and, it seemed to her, longingly out over the lawns and oaks, the slaves busily tending to the grounds.
He appeared lost in his thoughts, mint julep in hand, condensation rolling meandering down the silver cup like tears. It seemed to her as though his expression conveyed a deep, but long since muddled and hazy, desire for something that he hadn’t seen or had in a very long time. She approached him quietly. She could tell he felt her presence. He made no acknowledgment, but took another long pull on the silver straw, and gave forth a heavy sigh.
“Why John, such a sigh! Whatever could you be thinking of?” her soft, southern voice flowed into the evening air like molasses over a biscuit.
John stared into his cup, gently swirling the remains, contemplating the prospect of another, and answered her question:
[Author's note: It's going to take me a long time to write a book this way.]