We called her Persephone -- not because she liked pomegranates, but because she always came back. Each spring, she arrived with the rain.
It was not all about the cash. She would count each bill, licking a finger. But she would also help herself to our wine.
We followed her as she sized up our belongings, picking portraits, vases, and candlesticks. She had immaculate taste.
One spring, she came with a quiet man. He seemed apologetic. They sat at our dining table, laid with cut glass and china. They were wearing our best clothes.
We watched because we had to.