The voyage to the country house was uneventful. Sam and Daphne traveled gaiety in the air. They had been a happy and united couple as united couples go; though tempests loomed they had never been sufficient to wreak sufficient havoc to the stern. And so the idle prattle, and desultory chit chat found them at the birthplace of her lover and the father of her three little bundles of joy.
the night birds the passion of the beetles and the love pleas of the cricket. Nature’s own orchestra. And the moon, when it did shine, was unabashed-like lovers whose amours necessitated no more coyness. The reward being the knowledge of what exactly pleased the other and diving to that depth for another encore.
Forgive me, idle reader, this narrative is more of a recording for men rather than an invitation to treat. Thus of necessity I must wander into various discourse as one tries to make sense of how the mentioned lovers affair lost its steam and why the next day Sam drove back to the city minus his sweetheart of three children.
Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. Painfully the weeks turned into a year. Her glances on the horizon were now few and in between. Nothing seemed to make her smile, her once youthful frame started sagging and she missed the kids. Like a zombie she lived her life cleft of all means of full joie de vive.
Her granny made no comments or allusion to the abandonment; why hack at a scar? Who ever found a sun rising in the West and setting in the East? Did butterflies fly in a straight line. Oh! Were some new suitor come to sweep her off her feet… Ah, ah, wistful thinking! She tended to her chores mechanically, impartially and zombie like.