She always felt better after they talked. Today had been so good; she rolled the tension of the long distance conversations off her shoulders. To be here on Valentine’s – she giggled at the romantic inside the jaded author. Weather suitable for a walk; then sun-warmed bench, sun-warmed bum. She pulled her mittens off, and wiggled her fingers. How nice it was to hold hands. Shadows still stretched early. She looked very tall and thin as she snaked her finger through the wrought iron work of the cemetery gate. Closing it behind her, she hummed one of his songs as she headed to the inn.
Bee says: “Go Wild With Stream of Consciousness” and Linda says “finger.” So, I put love and finger together (sorta).