One February fourteenth a cloud came to stay at Helen’s house. The cloud did not know it was Valentine’s Day. It did not know it was Helen’s birthday. It was a shy cloud, and was hiding from the rudeness of cannon fire, although the war had been over for some years. It was the only cloud that had rained fountain pens. Helen sat on the couch with the cloud each afternoon. She told it her secrets. She whispered to the cloud, I saw Mia Farrow in her underwear. The cloud was glad it came to her house. Sometimes the cloud would leave an antique fountain pen between the cushions. It liked to look out the window at the passing clouds. Although the cloud never spoke, Helen knew the dropped pens were signs of affection. She read to the cloud stories of trying times. Often she closed her eyes and imagined she was a nightclub dancer in Cairo, Egypt, but she was really an Allied spy known to her handlers by the code name Tiffany. Helen showed the cloud her awards and diplomas. Her awards and diplomas that lined the wall above the couch. Her awards and diplomas that drifted across the wall in the morning light.