She was the owner of a bookstore, the liver of an ordinary life. She was content but not truly happy. Something was missing. Some longing that she couldn’t name, couldn’t completely identify.
She just assumed the world felt this way. She lived her days and her nights expecting nothing more. And then, one Friday night, she met him. After that, nothing would ever be the same.
Written by Rebecca Milton
Published by AmorBooks
Liquid, languid morning, coffee and an omelet of some sort, delightful, delicious. The view from his place was stunning, terrific.
The night before, everything started with the sentence; “It’s better for everyone if we don’t use names.”
The night ended but moved seamlessly into the morning.
I started to make the bed, and he stopped me. It was Sunday. “The bed never gets made on Sundays,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee, brushing my cheek with the tips of his fingers, “there’s some sleep left in there, and I may want to use it later.” So, the bed was unmade and retreated to on that Sunday.
It was all charming and thrilling with an international feeling to it. I was playing, pretending, in a world that I just didn’t belong to, and yet, I fit right in. I’m not sure how. I just eased…
