Faded Puce

His face was so close to mine that our eyelashes were as tangled as the brambles under our feet, blackberry juice squelching between our toes, and the crow overhead sang our praises.

“It tickles.”

“Does it, sweetheart? Hmm . . . .”

It was that wonderful time of day, when the sun and moon sit at opposite sides of the sky and share a mutual cup of tea. The trees were faded puce and the leaves were torn like lace curtains; the icy chill prickled my bones.

I can only guess what he was thinking, but I reckon it wasn’t what I was thinking.

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