The sixty-something-year-old man comes in to answer his ringing phone, which he had left on the receptionist’s desk. Hmm, an iPhone 4, I observed.
He sees me standing there on the phone. Well, waiting for someone to pick up.
“Oh, are you calling me?” he teases, and he’s got an accent.
Dear little girl, You were exactly seven months old on the 17th of March, and I love you.
Here’s the longer version of the card I gave you.
She slowly turns her face towards the window, and I catch a glimpse of her profile. Beautiful, definitely. Familiar, very.
“Wow,” he looks at me, amazed. “It was only a few weeks ago that you told us that you didn’t know what you wanted to do. But know it looks like you do know now.”
“Yes,” I look at him, my eyes shining, “I know now.”