We are comfortable sitting in the car looking out over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, holding hands, our conversation a private murmur.
I felt it the first time I saw her. I just didn’t know it. But as time meandered on its way I realized I loved her.
“You have peanut butter on your shirt,” she said one day at work.
“Oh,” I chuckled, feeling my shoulder. “My daughter needed to be held for a while this morning.”
She says that’s when she knew she loved me, so long ago.
© Copyright 2016 Mike McNeff. All rights reserved.
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Mike McNeff is a retired cop and lawyer who has had two action novels published by Amazon Encore and a western published bv Booktrope. He is a member of Whidbey Writers Group on Whidbey Island.
A daughter is a daughter for the rest of your life until you added that last line. It kind of confused me cause I’m thinking the “She” is referring to the peanut butter lady.
Read it again. You’ll get it.
Lovely!
Got it “she” is his daughter.
I’ve read it three times and still read the ‘she’ as a woman who fell in love with his warm and gentle nature, when he spoke of his daughter. Even if I’m misinterpreting, I like this story.