Grace Savage arrives as the supermarket doors open on Christmas Eve morning. ‘Twice widowed, now shy,’ as she invariably describes herself, Grace browses the fruit and veg aisles, inspecting carrots and parsnips, furtively popping a green grape into her mouth.
George had never seen that gray shed behind the Busak’s house tucked into some forsythia. He considered whether it might be new, but the shed seemed too at home among the branches.
For a heavy woman, I have oddly slender and agile fingers. These help when I pick out Chopin’s mazurkas.
Hold up, because you didn’t say I promise, Janey. You never said I Promise. Did you do that on purpose?
My irretrievably lost lover was found frozen in a blazing coal burner.