(no subject)
On an august evening, much like the one this night, fifty years ago, i met a woman who would love me. I was not a handsome man, and i grew up in poverty. Had things been of another age, i never would have been able to marry that woman. With nothing was I blessed. It seems I was doomed to be a pauper, and an oaf, for the rest of my life. I must confess that I did have one thing, the singular ability to count small objects as they were cast on the floor. A thousand two-hundred fifty three pennies. Two hundred and seven toothpicks. Nothing else, besides congeniality, and that woman.
She was the most beautiful woman to me. She had wide-set eyes and a ruddy complexion, the fingers of a seamstress and a fiery palm, and that same characteristic of an enthusiast as her palm would indicate. She was charming and witty, proper and kind, and meant the world to me. We met on an august evening fifty years ago, and i will never forget her, though she is now dead just this last thursday.
She was the most beautiful woman to me. She had wide-set eyes and a ruddy complexion, the fingers of a seamstress and a fiery palm, and that same characteristic of an enthusiast as her palm would indicate. She was charming and witty, proper and kind, and meant the world to me. We met on an august evening fifty years ago, and i will never forget her, though she is now dead just this last thursday.