Only I am not an acquaintance at all. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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