She loved the sound of her high heels on the pavement. A casual unhurried I’m in control sound. She knew the higher the heels, the more elegant her walk . . .
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I was quiet. I was able to be quiet. My sister more than made up for my absence of audible response to every situation. . .
I held a glass of champagne in my hand and stood alone under the dark night sky. . .
The strange woman at my door holds a knife and a fork. Her cutlery is sharp. She smells of raw oysters. A bag hangs over her shoulders . . .
It was the jet lag that had set Owen off . . .
“You better come get me,” George mumbled into the phone when his wife Connie answered brightly on the third ring . . .
The cool water of the lake bit into her as she reached for the canoe, hands slipping against the polished surface, tired legs kicking slowly at the darkness . . .
Eammon Doyle wrapped his fist on the bar. “This is Col. James Kelleher, Jungle Jim to his friends. He’s just back from Belfast. I know some of you lads are thinking of joining the fight, so I asked him to talk to you.” . . .