“I don’t like Rachel Covington. You know, I mean, I like her… I just don’t like her. I don’t like any girl.”
“They were teasing you about that?”
“Do you fancy me?”
Had her heart thumped any louder or speedier, the neighbouring seagulls would have broken into a fervid dance to the tempo of her unabated febrility.
Naomi propped her dainty elbows atop the windowsill.
“Life is not a highway strewn with flowers,” crooned her angelic and mellifluous voice in profound despair and poignant sorrow.
“Rumour has it,” began she, with an air of practised coquetry, “that you are a stupendous judge by way of physiognomy decipherment.”
“Word,” he chimed and arranged his tie. “To be sure you are a strumpet.”
“How pleasant it is to receive the day in this manner,” cried my father one morning, whilst he was conveying me to work, and when the threadbare van was rattling to a jerky standstill along Hillview Avenue, as I wove five fingers through my raven, lacklustre, and intricately knotted hair, to detangle without success.
To me it emerged that there was no discording upon such a meticulous observation, one which I should have otherwise sensed naught about had my interlocutor rather mentioned something else in which I see no likelihood of partaking. For when I inhaled abundantly from the open windows, so as to prompt a whiff of bougainvilleas goodness to waft through my nostrils and windpipe and into my lungs, it promised well, of many gleeful prognostics of a fruitful Wednesday.