A roll of thunder in the distance, and Micky rolled in her bed, tossing and turning. 

"Orko." She whispered, her thin willowy frame softly rose up, her cotton, Amish-looking nightgown flickering from the shadows of the oil lamp on her wooden nightstand. 

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she stuffed her feet into her fuzzy slippers and walked over to the corner of the room. There, atop of make-shift alter, was hundreds of newspaper clippings spanning years of watching...

"Orko."

She watched him quietly, peering from a nearby tree. Watching him eat his egg sausage and cheese sandwich and drink his mug of lukewarm coffee. As the gentle breeze swept across her face, caressing her cheek, she watched him. He seemed to shimmer that find day. His impeccable suit, the way he lazily folded the morning paper onto the glass outdoor table outside Le Cafe Bruchon.

She would never confront him, her eyes watching him through her camera lenses in hopes to capture a glimpse of his magnificence. 

"Orko."

She snapped a few more photos that day. Sometimes he would be surrounded by bodyguards, all men. When the quiet dim of the evening lit up the stars, she would stare at his photos, rocking back and forth.