“Call me Cathy, John. But come in, dear. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. ” Anna nodded. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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