her love story

will you read my book,
she asked.
taking out a box
of yellowed typed paper.
she brushed off the cobwebs,
with her blue veined hand,
and shooed her cat away.
we were having tea and toast
in her sun room.
we were forty years apart
in age.
sit for awhile, take a break
from your work, she said.
cream and sugar? jam?
I lifted the manuscript from the box.
it was a romantic story.
the second world war,
two lovers with a sad ending.
there were lines crossed out
with blue ink,
notes in the columns. arrows
and circles going
in all directions.
i'll read it tonight, I told
her, looking at the last page.
reading the last line.
i already knew what i would say.
it's wonderful. it's perfect.
it's lovely. send it out.