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Rowan Wolf

Smashwords Edition

June 2018



Copyright 2018 by Wolfstuff

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About Author

Sussex nights in early July do not stay dark for long, and by four o’clock gray creeps up on you from under bushes and from behind walls and soon you can easily make out shapes and features again. Half an hour later, it’s as good as day.

We had stayed up talking right on through the night against a shared, and much enjoyed backdrop of Joni Mitchell, Stealers Wheel, Ralph McTell, and even some George Frideric Handel, sustained by deeply held and shared beliefs. It was timeless talk. And by timeless I mean, first it was ten o’clock in the evening, then it was four in the morning. Just like that.

She was young and had a wonderful English accent. She had those kinds of eyes that sparkled a bit when she looked at you, green with gold-flecked irises. You’ve seen them perhaps? Juice Newton comes to mind. Magical eyes. Uncommon eyes—I have since learned. Unforgettable eyes—I learned that summer.

She had wonderful breasts, full from recent motherhood, though still aloft with youth. Her skin was just a shade off white toward amber, and smooth, as if someone had dipped her in creamy milk just from the farmer. Beautiful hands, milky too. And strong. And when she wrote—which I had seen her do often, for we shared an office—she curled her cursive letters back over themselves in a way that made it look like she was on some marathon reverse traveling ovals exercise. Almost the way some left-handed writers do, but she was right-handed. And she could do this, could write like this, and legibly, even beautifully, without looking at the page—while looking at me, for example—her pen still trailing perfect letters into perfect words into perfectly straight lines of them.

An amazing skill. Amazing hands. A conjurer’s hands. Milky, too—or did I already say that?

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