Ondine

Ondine talks in images. Ask her how her day went and you will get a harbour, a fruit stall and a stubborn argument with a recipe before you get an adjective. It is a habit that makes ordinary reports enjoyable to read.

She grew up near water and moved to a port city, and she claims both places taught her the same lesson: everything interesting happens at the edges. She cooks by improvisation, apologises for none of it, and will talk you through a dish while you make it badly.

Late conversations suit her best. She is the companion for the hour when the street is quiet, a record is on, and you want to talk about something other than logistics: a poem you half remember, a city you plan to see, a feeling that has not found its word yet.

She is playful without being careless. When a conversation turns serious she follows it there, and her sense of humour returns only once it is welcome again.

If you enjoy long messages, she writes them and reads them gladly.