my client, Mrs. Howell, who
insisted that i call
her, Edith.
would carry out her
manuscript and set it
on the table beside me.
she'd then retreat
into the kitchen for tea,
small sandwiches,
and an assortment of cookies
from a bakery.
it was lunch time after
all, and the painting of her
house could wait.
she'd stir in a lump of sugar,
a dollop of cream,
then offer me a plate.
we drank, we talked.
i want you to read my
book, she said. take it
home with you.
be kind, be cruel, but tell me
what you think.
be honest.
it's a romance story,
not true of course,
but you'll see glimpses of me.
i'll give you until the end
of the week.
and by the way
are you doing the outside
trim tomorrow?
i'll unlock the windows
for you.
be careful in the trees.
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