When Ethel takes a trip to London, she hears more than she bargained for. When she meets with Misters Percival and Cecil Sands, she is regaled with a tale that raises her eyebrows.
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I set my suitcase down and look around the room. One bed. One lamp. One washbasin. One chair. One dresser.
A window opens out to the sight of huge grain elevators, and I realize that’s where I’ll be working in just a few days.
The railway line runs right past and soon the back-breaking work of loading the cars will occupy my days.
But my nights?
They say the saloons here are full of fighting and gambling and drinking and women, and I’m all for that. Except for the women, of course.
I left behind the only woman for me. Miss Anglin. Margaret. Read the rest of the story at “Postcard Vignettes”.
Will she understand, or will she see my postcard as a cowardly act? Another in the series of Postcard Vignettes.
Whatever possessed me to think that Marguerite would be a perfect travel companion?
Although we’d known each other for years, we’d never travelled together, save for a few local car trips. She’d been perfectly fine then. Oh, there had been a bit of griping and moaning, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I would simply smile and try to change the subject. But changing the subject didn’t change things at all.
It was really quite comical. I was sound asleep despite the constant shifting movement of the train when all of a sudden there was a loud banging on the door of my berth. It took me a moment to get my bearings. Where was I again? Oh yes, somewhere en route to Thunder Cape.
I just kept thinking about her. Even though we’d met just months before, and even though we’re now in the same town, we might as well be worlds away.
The desk had been set up in anticipation of this moment. The mahogany gleamed with a rich dark hue, having been lovingly oiled and polished ‘til the grains no longer were like rivulets in the sand, now smooth to the touch.
It’s hot. I’m very tired. I should be enjoying my stay here, but I’m not.