A few memories more

Saraphine was a great cook. She could make a meal out of thin air in five minutes. She had hair the colour of copper that glowed like a flame when the sun shone on it. She was an excellent gardener and could work as hard, or harder, as anyone I've ever met.
Her arms were long and slender and resolved themselves in two hands that were as beautiful as sculpted ivory. She was a natural girl with natural ways and a natural charm.She was fragrant without being perfumed. She needed no make up; her skin was perfect, and if she ever did apply any, it would be done so subtly and so tastefully that you assume she'd always looked that beautiful (which she often did, even in the morning).
I loved her legs; her head; her elbows; her blue eyes; her smile; her mind; her mouth; her freckles; her laughter; her waist; her hips; her kisses; her knees; her thumbs; her smooth, golden shoulders and her slender neck and the way it gently sloped into her gorgeous back; the curve of her thighs and all the other pieces of her puzzle; all the places I knew intimately; the places where I would often find myself, exhausted in serenity.
She could paint beautifully and had and excellent eye for photography. She always dressed well and, even with little money, she still managed to look stunning and individual.
She was caring, kind, funny, generous and thoughtful.
She could also be terribly moody and pout like a thirteen year old girl. She could make me feel like a god or a fool; amazing or completely wretched. She had a tendency to want things her own way and could sulk like pro.
She sang, sometimes with a slight American accent, and I would often hear a verse or two, of one song or another that I recognised, coming from a room somewhere in the house, usually the kitchen or the bathroom. It made me smile.
Only once did I see her so helplessly drunk that she could hardly walk, and that had been after a long day in the sunshine, drinking pastis and red wine, but I picked her up off the floor from underneath the piano, and carried her boots for her that evening as she walked unsteadily home, barefoot along the warm tarmac of the road, with her arm around my shoulder and her head resting on her chest like a wounded soldier.