The newcomer was past her prime. If the 21st June is the height of summer, she was somewhere around the beginning of August. She looked good and if she’d been let in on my metaphor she’d probably have seen herself at some point towards the end of May.
They touched fingers and the second one slipped her coat from her shoulders and said something I couldn’t hear. The tall one whispered the other’s name, ‘Galatea.’
Read all of Waiting for Galatea, from John Baker's From My Notebook.
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