Pamela Blundell

I’ve got my eye on you

In his grey-blue R.A.F. uniform he visited our world. Wartime opened homes to soldiers, sailors and airmen, welcomed them to un-rationed food, comfortable beds, smiles from young daughters.

Smiles become glances, glances touches. He leans forward. ‘Can I give you a light?’ The voice is cool. Words resonate with imagined, unimagined purpose. The cicadas sing in the hot, dark garden. Breathlessly, ‘Thankyou,’ her eyes retrieving his through smoke blown from inviting lips.

He bent his head to her ear. They laughed. He touched her cheek. It was too much. ‘Dinner’s ready!’ I called, lying.

I was eleven, my sister twenty-one.

100 Words

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