Harriet tuned out of the Ethernet as her great-aunt approached from the kitchen gardens carrying a trug of freshly pulled root vegetables. There was something wholesome about eating things that had been grown instead of processed – one of the reasons Harriet had gravitated to her father’s side of the family when she left university.
“Aunt Lucy,” she said, “Can I ask you something.”
“Of course, dear.” Lucy put the trug on the table. “Shall we walk in the garden for a little while?”
“That would be nice.” Harriet followed her to the rose garden, feeling the change in Ethernet transmitters as a gentle tug in her head as she passed under the old brick moongate. “Why did you never have a recognised extended relationship?”
Her aunt smiled. “Why did I never marry, you mean?”
Lucy cupped her right elbow in her left hand, and supported her chin with her right. Her fingers tapped across her pale lips as she though. Finally, with much deliberation and pointing her finger for emphasis, she replied. “Many years ago,” she said, “when I was still a glamorous twenty-something, I was told by a fortune teller that love was waiting in the wings.” She chuckled and stepped forward, waving her hand toward the trees. “I’ve been waiting ever since, but I’ve never met a man with wings.”
She paused, turned and smiled. “Not one that was worth keeping for more than a night or two, anyway.”
Painting: "Woman in a Garden"
by Johannes GRENNESS (1875-1963)