When I Was a Child…

The three of them were sitting together one evening, drinking wine and talking. There was candle light and soft music in the background.

“Do you remember that place we spent the night when we took that road trip in spring?”

“Yes, it had a wooden fence around and that green kind of fence made of plants. What is that called?”

“A hedge,” she laughed, “Only you could forget a word like that.”

“Yes, a hedge. And the building was wood and stone.”

“The rooms were nice and cozy. We each had a separate room. Mine had a balcony.”

“And there was a little desk on the mezzanine. You remember? With a typewriter. They said Hemingway used to write there.”

“No, I think it was Truman Capote.”

“Well, whoever it was, the place was really nice. And classy.”

“I had pleasant dreams back there. I dreamed about the woods.”

“When I was a child, my parents told me it was a sin to have dreams. I always lied and told them I never had any.”

“And then for breakfast they served poached eggs.”

“Oh yes, they were lovely.”

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