Norma Jean wakes up at 9am—not too early, not too late.

She pushes back her quilt, made by hand during a summer filled with swims in the lake and reading in windows. Pulls open the curtains. The sunlight kisses her skin awake.

Norma Jean does not know cameras, could not tell you Jackie Kennedy’s name.

She makes coffee in a robe, or sips tea in an old nightgown, or warms toast with her hair in rollers.

Norma Jean reads the paper, and does not think of Marilyn, illness, of fathers, men’s hands, the affairs, none of it.

She does the crossword and reads the funnies, choosing pages to bring to her nieces and nephews in the city.

A light breakfast, and a bubble bath with her favorite record—Fitzgerald, Armstrong, Mozart.

Towels her hair. Does dishes in her pajamas, every plate shined to perfection. Hangs her linens to dry in the warm June breeze, not caring who sees her unmentionables.

Norma Jean tries on lipsticks after lunch, puckers her lips and winks at her reflection. She does this for no one but herself.

2pm, and a picnic at the beach with Keats, Lawrence, Colette, and Proust. A scarf tied around her head, white sunglasses, and denim shorts. Norma Jean walks barefoot and does not worry about sand in her shoes. Tiptoes over sand dunes and balances on driftwood logs. Waves at the children out with their mothers, and remembers to call her sister.

Norma Jean bakes brownies for her nieces and nephews before driving to her brother’s house for drinks. Chocolate is her niece’s favorite, and Norma Jean loves to surprise her.

Norma Jean has lemonade while her brother sips a Mai Tai. She has been sober for almost two years, and has not craved a drink in months. They talk about the kids, about their mother, plans to get together for the Fourth of July. Norma Jean waves off her brother’s recommendation of Lord of the Rings, says she can’t do books with that much war. “I prefer Lawrence Durrell,” she says. “You ought to read him—a genius he is, really.”

Norma Jean kisses her nieces and nephews goodnight and drives home on backroads, one arm out the window. She prefers the quiet of country nights, finds the city lights too glaring and harsh. Norma Jean slows every now and then to listen to the crickets, gazes at cows and horses ambling to their stalls.

Norma Jean takes off her lipstick as soon as she is in the door, kicks off her shoes and hangs her handbag on the hatrack. Fixes herself a pastrami sandwich and sinks into the couch, wonders if she should change the curtains.