I wish I could tell her that she can relax. Job, housing, love, leisure time: I’m going to put it all right. I’ll come up with an apartment that’s not very expensive to rent but nice, with a proper, God-given (pardon my word play) bed. And if all goes well (it will!) she’ll be able to pursue that research of hers she’s so thrilled about. No worries, Daphne, I’ll take care of everything, I’d like to tell her. I’m here—you know, God, I’d like to whisper in her ear, tenderly but reassuringly.
But instead I remain mute as a fish, true to my habitual divine reserve. No matter what happens, no matter how bad the mess she’s in. It pains me to see her like this, but I can’t let myself be taken hostage by sentiment or act out of impulse. There’s a time for everything. This evening I’ll limit myself to sending her a proper restorative sleep to enjoy in her dry aquarium. Sleep is important when things go badly, otherwise the nerves (I won’t go into the technical details) become exhausted. I’m also supervising her dreams personally; to cheer her up, some charming Zeffirellian romantic nonsense in pastel colors with Florentine embellishments—and a few baroque Greenaway strokes here and there. Not exactly her style, but it should do the trick.
Of course, atheist that she is, when she sees that her problems have been resolved, she’ll think things worked out all by themselves. She’ll say she was super lucky, after all that bad shit (her terminology) that befell her. I don’t mind. To love means to be concerned with the welfare of the beloved person above all, not with one’s own (and this tale is taking me where it wants to go).