37 - Maeve
The salty wind of the Atlantic blew wrappings and empty paper cups past my crutches. It was a welcome change from the wood dust from my morning of sanding. I was getting better at taking long strolls from Kathleen’s house to the pier, and the exercise would reward me with a view of Stanley as he tinkered with his boat.
I walked along the whole four hundred meters of the pier, stopping at the ice cream shop for one cone, then leaned against the railing to check on the progress with his boat, sipping the glorious black cherry ice cream.
The difference of height between the wooden promenade and the fishermen’s quay afforded me a good view of his muscular back, the muscles glistening with sweat.
Stanley had finished painting the trims, that shone a fierce white against the darke
