He preferred her face soap-scrubbed. Hair tied back with
velvet ribbons; mouth unsmiling, eyes lowered in imitation of a purged and
penitent Benedictine nun.
The first time he asked, and every time thereafter, he quoted
Tennyson’s hackneyed invitation. Obtained parental permission to stroll with
her to where there were trees enough to render the fleeing of the poet’s ‘black
bat ‘ of night unnecessary. Distant enough for cries of passion to go unheard.
She had long ceased wondering if he’d had this in mind when,
twelve years ago, he held her at the baptismal font and named her Maud.
No comments:
Post a Comment