If you recall, Rose and I have been talking about how she and Harold first met—an exercise suggested to me by the editor that heard my story pitch. When we left Rose last time, she had stopped mid-story for a glass of lemonade.
I don’t know about you, but the wait has been excruciating.
Finally, I’ve pinned her down for more…
After some coffee—strong, because that’s what Rose thought I meant when I said something “stronger”—we settle on the porch swing. The sun is low on the horizon and I’m wishing I’d brought a sweater with me. Evenings get chilly in a hurry this time of year.
ROSE: Now, where were we?
TM: You had just found yourself face to face with—
ROSE: Oh, yes! Well, I wasn’t sure what I was face to face with. This… thing… covered in muck and blood stood outside a dilapidated shed. Continue reading