The sound of the vibrations of my phone on the wooden bench are familiar. A sound I subconsciously wait for. I pick up my phone and a message reads: 'I'm coming over in 5. Hope thats OK' It's from her. But she never comes over. I take one last drag and put the stub out. Pick up my still steaming mug and bring it inside. I sit down back at my computer, open a blank page, and put fingers to keyboard to record my thoughts. My writing is interrupted- Knock knock knock then my phone vibrates in my pocket, sending shivers down my leg. 'Knock knock knock' it read. I open the door and there she stands, her face damp. It wasn't raining and her eyes were red, fresh from crying. "Well come inside" I said, trying to sound warm and comforting, then remembering she also hates the cold weather, "its too cold outside." She sits down on my bed, the main feature of the one roomed unit I lived in. I sit down right beside her and put my arm around her. She leans her head back on my shoulder, something. He laid it down near his chair, which as always faced the water most directly. His wife, Pam, still attractive despite her 47-year old odometer, was simply happy to be with her family members – she paid little heed to any personal needs. The afternoon sun quickly disappeared behind the trees and soon darkness enveloped the merry figures gathered around the campfire. They told trivial tales from their lives and teased each other on matters of love and romance. The daughters had a running joke about how their parents, immaculate citizens in every way, maintained a secret life as wild, hippie swingers. It wasn’t true – Thomas and Pam really were as uptight as the appearance suggested, but they liked their daughters’ fantasy nonetheless. It made them feel cooler, in with the young crowd. They in turn, half teasingly and half seriously, inquired about the girls’ love life. They tried to be casual about it, talking about their daughters’ crushes and boyfriends as just chapters in a.
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