She took us there. To that place. That idyll with its isolated cottage and the gently flowing stream.
We caught the slow train to the country station. Then walked the three miles to the private front gate, to the intimate front door.
Her motive was ulterior. She was working to a strategy. To a plan.
We talked. We read. We cooked. A bottle (only one?) was opened, poured, sipped. Slowly.
Phone reception, there was none. Nor wi-fi nor television. We were alone.
Of course I proposed. Tentatively. Of course she said yes. With alacrity.
God, how I love that woman.
For Friday Fictioneers.