Thursday, April 29, 2010

119. The Bottom of the Garden

They expected fairies down the bottom of this garden any moment. Fiona believed one would pop out from behind a bush, or buzz overhead – like a damselfly, only plumper. Diarmid kept the dream alive, delighting in the sheer freedom and joy that he experienced in her company. Measuring out the length of the low sandstone wall in dolly steps. Race you to the bubbler! Hah – water up your nostril.

The soft couch under the trees was like gossamer to his touch, but no comparison with the sensuality of lying on spiky buffalo grass out in the wide open, on the gentle slope above the main pond watching as the kids rolled down the slope, giggling their hearts out like a gaggle of gerties. Diarmid lay back watching the scatter of clouds drift across the blue, as small droplets formed on the minute hairs at the back of Fiona’s white neck.

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