On the other side of the window, icicles, and beyond them, the children’s playground, white and desolate.
Old George shivers. He longs for spring, for crab apple blossom and tulips.
He longs for summer, for hot blue skies, for dahlias and peonies, for dragonflies, and ice cream cones that you have to eat fast, before they melt, for the shrieks and laughter of the kids playing on the swings and slides and splashing in the wading pool.
Instantly he thinks of typewriters and young women.
Specifically, of the young women in ‘the pool’ as they called it in those days. ‘Girls.’ That’s what they were then.
Long ago, yes, but he still remembers lifting the receiver of the black phone, waiting for the dial tone, listening for a moment to the muffled laughter and clacking typewriters at the other end, then saying those magic words Continue reading