She reacts like a startled deer when I slide into the pew beside her.
“Shall you miss him, my dear?” I say conversationally.
A heartbeat, then “Won’t everyone?” she parries.
“Well, none more than you, I suspect.”
She’d bolt, but I’m firmly blocking her way.
“He was well-loved,” she says.
“And thoroughly too,” I add, “I’m surprised there aren’t more of you here.”
I regret that immediately, and take her hand, painfully registering the contrast in our skin.
“I think he loved you.”
“But not enough to leave you,” she whispers.
They always want it all, don’t they, these girls?
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness… love it! This has been the final week of the writing competition for which I’m a member of the judging panel. There have been some eye-openers, particularly an almost universal trend amongst the under 18’s to deliver dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories which, when read one after another, would drive you to the medicine cupboard. Looking forward to a little light relief from this week’s Friday Fictioneers, under the leadership of the gracious Rochelle Wisoff Fields.