Cantillate

Excitement turned to anxiety. Any second now Harry with his troubling watery Wedgewood blue eyes would arrive. She didn’t want to meet him anymore but if she left through the front door she’d bump into him.

The window was open. She lowered herself out backwards, cantillating “Baby I was born to run – Baby I was born to run” while probing the air with her Clark’s, her gut-grief relieved now that she had thwarted this misadventure.

Contact! Then a shout. “Lady Smock! Where are you going?” There he was, kneeling in the dirt, shaking hands holding freshly picked daffodils.

Darling Harry.

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