William slurped his shake. Mrs Eames
cast him a dirty look. Really young
William, your manners need an overhaul,
she said, faintly amused. I sipped my
drink, lips lightly pursed, ladylike. I
couldn’t bear the grossness of boys.
The restaurant hummed with happy
people. Piped music tinkled in the
background. Mrs Eames had become
our surrogate mother. I was pleased.
She was wrapped in her unnecessary
winter coat, clearly relishing our outing.
She was wrinkled as a weathered apple.
I loved her.