He is in his usual white shirt, leather braces and tan working pants. His work boots are muddied and wet from the horse fields. I slowly walk towards him, unsure of what on earth I am meant to say.
I want Jeremiah to return, yet at the same time I would give anything for a moment alone with this green-eyed oaf who mocks me so.
“Good morning. Those are not for you.”
“Are they not!” he exclaimed before continuing to take another bite.
“Shame on you, those are for poor Jeremiah,” I added, stepping ever closer to him down the long corridor of stables. He stood up and leaned against the wall, continuing to enjoy his stolen snack.
“Shame on you, he doesn’t even have the teeth for eating an apple. Where is the jam, the soft honey that would suit a man of his age?” he replied, thr
