It is the Dream again.
Flaminarixodaparcaftion settles further into her fluffy chair, crossways from her father… whose hands are in the dishes.
With a pale blue apron buckling his hips, he and his work and his bum bob in front of her; he is humming a showtune.
On the outside.
Today, they were at dinner in a garden, lit with the light of dark ivy and curtains of scrubby moss instead of drippy candles and scruffy squares of plaid.
As he turned round from the counter, he had two things in his hands; a plump sour apple, candy green. A luscious deep red cherry.
The lively cherry rested in his right hand, lolling stem and bulb like a popped jack in the box. The goodly apple sat his left however, stalwart, waiting, a soldier at attention.
He hadn’t the apron on, then.
Beneath snowy straight hair longer than she is, her eyelids flutter, remembering; little diamonds in the hand, beneath a good light. Her eyes open on her own name, written in an unfamiliar hand on a little paper card. His fingers are placed precariously on a corner and a half, holding it in her face. His other hand is holding hers, guiding her to a table beset by just the right amount of moonlight.