“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?”
“Shut your eyes,” beseeched he, with a spectacular grin plastered animatedly and mischievously across his phizog, which, in spite of the oppressive summer sun—its offending, torrid rays teasing every surface of my exposed skin—delivered shivers down my spine in waves, “and do not peep!”
The next few minutes ticked away in the following fashion: The Greek greengrocer, who had at first met me with another contagious beam just as I had scarcely allowed my closed eyelids to obscure the picturesque Mykonos beach, dazzling waters, azure sky as clean as a whistle, and tourists and travellers clad in the manifold bathing suits lightsomely talking the hind leg off a donkey whilst sipping at their cocktails, produced a strawberry drenched and saturated with chocolate for my consumption.
“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.”