The sliding doors are open. The sheer curtains billow in the ocean breeze.

She's standing with her face feeling the wind, back straight, arms out, gripping the railing. The porch overlooks the blue sea below, the puffy white clouds above. Her white robe has the same color as the vast sandy island beaches. One foot's down, her slender ankle and perfectly arched tendon completely still, like a statue. Her other foot is hooked behind.

She lifts her proud head, shakes her long hair out. She inhales a deep draught of salty sea air. Her face tilts up toward the sun, letting it warm her soft skin. This is her favorite spot, her favorite time.

A breeze lifts her robe and caresses her skin.

All of the words and all of the cameras and all of the photos and all of the statues could not capture this moment of her Olympian beauty. I stand transfixed, bound in this eternal vision.

Outside, she lives in the moment. She turns to me, and says,

"It's so beautiful here. Why don't you come out and join me?"

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