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Margo was lovely. A charmer. Her daughters were adorable. I could eat them up. So we had fun and finally the food arrived after more than an hour. As a surprise, we were told the dinner was free because we had to wait so long. I was beginning to think this was surely my lucky day. After dinner we drove back to the white house on the corner. Again, I noticed curtains fluttering as we got out and went up the wooden steps to the front door. The neighbors were checking me out. I turned around and saluted the street. The girls giggled and Margo laughed. We went in and settled into the living room for an evening of television. But we were really still getting acquainted. Martha had seemed to have latched onto me and was sitting almost in my lap on a love seat. Mary was just grinning from a large recliner and Margo was in and out getting drinks and fussing about. Finally, Margo said she needed to get up to bed. It was Sunday, and she had to work Monday morning. She pecked my cheek and. He knew if anyone could love this woman as fully as she deserved, it would be him. As the man continued to fall in love with this person, he realized that her complexity reminded him of a book. Not just any dime-store novel, that one could read in a night and then discard, but a rich, fully-developed epic, far more engaging than anything that he had ever read before, and he was considerably well-read. She was the kind of book that at times he could not put down for days on end, and at other times he needed to tear himself away to contemplate and digest what he had read before he could continue. But her story never left his mind, it kept unfolding in layer after layer until he could only marvel at her scope. And as time went on, and he fell deeper and deeper in love with her, there were times also when he could see his thread running through her narrative, sometimes broader, some times slimmer, sometimes invisible to his eye, but he trusted that he was always there, somewhere. And.
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