‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. I've often regretted that I didn't investigate the matter. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. She painted on the Root Beer Lip Smackers lip gloss that Shari had bought her last Christmas and rouged her cheeks as she had long ago as she once had for Sebastian. “Oh, that. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “They have all been trying to turn my head. “Girl friends.
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