As he gazed into her eyes, limpid pools of blue-grey, they reminded him of the pond at his grandmother Elisabeth's, where he used to go as a little boy, skipping rocks across the murky surface, and wondered how she'd feel if he skipped across his desk, grabbing up her pebbles in his hands, to bring life into her murky depths with some rocks of his own.
Is that bad enough?
Hitch
Last edited by Hitch; 09-20-2013 at 01:22 PM.
Reason: Per Dr Drib's request.
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