He snores, deep and loud, and always after a night out with his friends.

Amy lies in the dip he makes, and his leaden arm weighs on her. A single thought ignites a glimmer of excitement. Today is the day, and sunlight shines in her soul. It makes a halo around the curtains.

Jack might hold her close, silent and determined. Their lips might meet as a tentative graze full of hope. It rouses a warm glow within. He is erect for her. Full of confidence, Amy will straddle him, watching his features melt as she guides him in. Poised, she will slither back and forth and will bask in the blood-hot friction.

A loud snuffle and the coarse exhalation of stale breath yanks away her dream.

She could do this now and take her boyfriend like that – a surrogate for this gnawing ache. A furtive caress stirs her juices. She will wake the hungover lump, pretend it is Jack and banish her frustration. It might placate the physical need, but it will never fulfil her.

A pang of morality bites. A moment of selfish pleasure paid for by a permanent, regretful memory. Today, Amy risks it all with Jack and might trade a burning torch for the ashes of ruin.

Her boyfriend snores as thunder might rumble, and a storm of painful memories blackens her soul. She knows the words his friends use behind her back: doormat, plain, boring. Her boyfriend’s laughter still echoes through her mind. She settled for him as the first man in a long time who showed her any attention. The hurt motivates her today, and procrastination is for tomorrow.

A day of action became a week, and weeks made months, not that her boyfriend noticed.

The gym work and hours of aerobic classes toned her body, not that he noticed.

Contact lenses replaced her spectacles. A beauty consultation followed, with new hairstyle, make-up and clothes.

Not that he noticed.

Yesterday, her hair was expensively cut and coloured, not that he noticed.

Amy is naturally shy and timid but not plain, dull or boring.

Not that he notices. Snuffling like a pig, he snores.

Showered, flattening down her summer dress, Amy picks up her car keys. Propped against the kettle, she leaves a note.

The letterbox clatters when the front door shuts.

-2-

Today is the day.

Bleary eyes focus on the halo around the curtains, and Jack stretches out from a fetal position. Cotton-mouthed anticipation sweeps the lethargy away, and he scratches a day’s growth.

Amy? It is platonic and should always be… platonic.

Showered clean, he towels himself, accompanied by birdsong from the ajar window. Awake and alert, bright sunlight illuminates his body through the frosted glass.

He spies the aftershave on the shelf, too much, too overt.

Jack shaves carefully and mulls over what might happen. They have been friends for months, and it has to be this way.

In shorts and a pressed polo shirt, he fusses to look his best. He takes care of what he has, the boy next door, brought up in a house full of women. Sports provided male role models he never had, but they alienated his intellect. Descending the stairs, there it is. The plywood case, between new and used, sharp-edged and brass-buckled, slightly burnished. Amy said nine o’clock, so enough time for breakfast, and lunch cools in the fridge.

Peering through the kitchen window inspires a smile, a bright azure sky and shrinking shadows on this glorious summer’s day. The bite of cold apple juice salves his nerves.

The doorbell rattles like a marble in a tin can.

Each footstep elevates the thumping in his chest, and through the mottled glass, she is here.

They stand face-to-face for the first time at the weekend.

“Morning, Amy.”

“Good morning!” Bright with twinkling eyes, her lustrous hair dapples in the morning sun, “Ready?”

“I’ll get my case.” He pauses, “Did you do something with your hair? It looks great. Really suits you.”

“Aw,” she beams. “I did, thank you.”

With lunch in the cool bag, he grabs the case.

The letterbox clatters when the front door shuts.

-3-

Dabbing at three colours on the palette, Jack huffs and reaches for another tube of oil.

Amy peers over. “No, not that one. The empty square mark means it is a transparent colour. Perfect for the sky and those faint wisps of cloud.”

He looks apprehensive. “Oh... oh yes. Oils are tricky. I should stick to watercolour.”

Struck for a moment, she sees the child in his eyes. “Oils are more expressive. They have a texture that entertains the eye. It will be worth it, I promise.”

She glances back at her car, and the tired old jalopy sits under the canopy of the solitary oak tree. Amy can feel his gaze. It warms her body, and she yearns to be adored.

Turning back, Jack averts his eyes.

“How is Róisín?”

He shrugs, “Who knows? We split up last week.”

“Aw, Jack, I am sorry to hear that.”

He dabs at his palette, aimlessly mixing two colours. “No need, it was my decision. We wanted different things.”

“Different things?” Her calm, disaffected tone surprises her. “If you don’t mind me asking…”

“Not at all,” He pauses with no trace of regret, “I am more than rugby and drinking songs. I know I am complicated. She thought I was being difficult.”

“Oh, I see.”

Their eyes meet, and he offers with a weak smile. “Sorry, Amy, I know she is your friend. I hope I did not hurt her feelings, but it fizzled out.”

“There is no need to apologise, and Róisín can look after herself.”

He nods, mulling over her words. “Good to know. We were hardly star-crossed lovers. A few dates, nothing more.”

But Amy does know.

Over a bottle of wine on Thursday night, each word rolling off the soft burr of her Dublin accent, Róisín told her everything.

“Seriously, when yer Mammy says it’s th’ strong silent types y’need to watch for… that’s grand. I just wish me Ma warned me about somethin’ else, y’know?”

Amy does not have a clue and nods along.

Róisín grinned with a leer she had never seen before and leaned in. “Jack’s fuckin’ blessed downstairs. A tight fit, no messin’. Now, I’m not loose or nothin’, but that second go, he was digging tunnels. By the third, fuck! He’s a total ride.”

Wide-eyed, dumbfounded, Amy watched as Róisín sipped her wine and eyed up a man at the bar. She turned back, gestured at her quarry, and grinned. Beyond any frame of reference, Amy could only reciprocate.

“So, Amy, me darlin’, don’t be a soppy eejit offerin’ me a shoulder to cry on. It wah grand while it lasted, and I only wanted a bit of craic. Jack’s too serious-minded for me. Have away with him yourself – he’ll leave you bandy-legged.”

He stares at his easel, deep in concentration, and does not notice her gaze. He is not the pallid, tortured soul attracted to artistic pursuits. In profile, she lingers on his smooth skin, kissed by the sun. That enigmatic congeniality rests easily on those handsome features. It deters some like Róisín, but Amy understands the creative mind.

Jack was initially reticent, suspicious of her offer to help; perhaps he bore old scars of ridicule. Over many weeks, he revealed his interests and what drove him. Each time they met, those piercing eyes cut deeper into her self-restraint. Each time he smiled, she lost her train of thought. He is the perfect blend of intelligence, athleticism and taciturn charisma.

Baser thoughts linger on the bulge in his shorts.

This afternoon is a sticky torture, and Amy wants to be different.

Jack thinks she is the same.

-4-

Home from the bar and alone, Amy lay in bed, wide awake. Her boyfriend was not back from his friends... those friends. The wine loosened Róisín’s tongue, and she regaled everything about Jack, blow-by-blow, graphic and sordid. The tingling heat bloomed into that needy ache. Amy tried not to fidget in public, her panties cloying and damp.

What is it about Jack? How does he do this to her?

Naked on a sultry summer’s night, the fresh cotton sheet grazes her tingling body, and an idle hand roams. She is the demure wallflower who never speaks up or out of turn, and Jack would never notice her in that way. There is uncertainty with hope... there is always certainty in her fantasies. These sharp edges of frustration must be blunted. Does he caress like this? How would he make love to her? Gently, probably, and it stirs the hankering within.

Wine is the solvent for her inhibitions, with only herself to lie to. She wants Jack to fuck her with all his might, clinging to him with slender limbs wrapped around his muscular body. Forced to writhe helplessly, impaled on that rigid shaft. Howling to banish her inner demons, his hand clamped over her mouth. She would suck on his fingers, stretch and flex back and beguile him to yield. Taken until her eyes rolled back in their sockets, paralysed by the boiling need to climax. An exorcism to banish years of pent-up frustration.

The half-forgotten item in her pedestal calls to her. Rummaging through her underwear, she finds it. It thrums, alive in her grasp, with an unknown quantity from old batteries.

Amy would undress him slowly, revealing his body and venerating it with delicate kisses. She tells him to lay naked on the bed, his muscular body taut, and she approaches, naked, too. A visual temptation until she kneels beside him, sly as a cat, determined as a lioness. Meandering fingers trace the definition of his body, haughty eyes tempt, and her touch enthrals him into feverish pleas.

The vibrating tip circles the sensitive hood of her clit. The immolation rages, and her automatic hips join the clamour.

“Not yet,” she mutters, “Not yet.”

It fills with blood, and she ogles the thick chord of his erection, ominous, caught between dread and lust. His balls are tight, and their contents are hers. Holding it, stroking it, she stares into his pleading eyes.

Amy rests between his legs. Taken in hand, she presses his rigid shaft to her cheek, blood-hot and ready for her. A wandering caress ranges over his torso, and his urgent words implore. Eye-to-eye, her tongue traces around the juicy, corpulent head. Into her mouth, she forces his surrender, and his deep groans are her reward.

Her body races faster than her mind, “Fuck!”

Pressing the toy into her folds, she moves on the rise and fall of the vibrations.

He takes control and rolls her over; the heft of his girth makes her into a woman. Clutching his body, she reveals all her desires. If he stutters or stalls, she takes over, pressing on him, moulding him, showing him what she needs.

The fluidity of her body accelerates, and she mimics the motion.

“More,” she whispers, “more.”

They move with the grace of swallows; they swoop and rise as one. Inextinguishable and consumed by his power, she must relent. The bulk of his body skids against hers, hot and clammy; she clings on, matching his every move. Each orgasm is more potent than the last, lost in the ebb and flow of their sexual chemistry. Words provoke action until instinct overwhelms them.

Deep in her sex, pulling at him, begging for more, she shakes in rising tremors. Imploring him for it, reassuring Jack because he owns her now, she must have his essence. For these delirious moments, disconnected from reality, a kaleidoscope of colour sparkles behind her eyelids.

It is not enough. Amy must feel something. She is a numb spectator in this unfair game of life.

Twisting as its power builds, she will endure its savagery, and her abdominals tighten. Her shoulders press down, her stuttering hips rise, and two heels dig in. Amy thrashes as it assaults her; this is what she needs, and Jack will provide it. The pillow muffles her anguished cries.

The toy withdraws; her torpid body glows. She opens the drawer, throws it in, and slams it shut.

Lost in the dreamy haze of soporific warmth, Amy succumbs.

-5-

A seagull scatters the hedgehoppers and cries to break the tranquillity.

Along the coastline, a promontory gives the calm sea a defiant fat finger. A lonely copse of trees punctures the landscape, and vales of pasture roll, clipped into parcels by ancient hedgerows. This is their idyll, and there is not another soul for miles.

“Amy, how do you know about this place?”

“Through friends, it’s farmland. Don’t worry, we have permission. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very peaceful.” He snorts, “Last year, if you told me I would be doing this, I would not believe you.”

Amy chuckles, “Why do you, Jack?”

“The sense of calm. I need it.” He pauses, a little sheepish. “I always liked to draw. I had no idea how difficult this is, though.”

“Well... I could not bear to watch you struggle in class. Besides, I like helping you.”

Looking at her, he grins, “I like it too. I got the better deal, though.”

“You did, Jack. You helped me in the gym - I helped you paint.”

He stares at the horizon. These simple things matter so much to Amy. The easy conversation with no tongue-tied moments and confidence is not an ingredient in cake or ice cream. The gym work emboldened her, from baggy t-shirts and shorts to her lissom figure in lycra. Nothing tastes as good as sexy feels. If only she could show it.

His short jab of paint is met with a sigh of relief.

Amy peers over, “Yes, light on top of colour. They are wisps of cloud, very delicate and transitory.”

“I get it now, thanks. Do you think we’ll get this done in one go?”

“Maybe,” she surmises, “depends on how much you want to finish it. Just in case, can we take a photo now? The mid-day light is perfect.”

Reaching for his camera, he captures the image. Turning to face Amy, she holds out a hand to block the lens.

“No... not me!”

“Oh, come on, Amy! You are beautiful. Pose for me.”

It floors her, and she drops her arm. “Really?”

“Of course you are. Go on, just one.”

She swallows back the metallic nervousness, “Well... okay.”

Waves of crimson hair in loose tresses catch the sea breeze. She looks out at the calm waters, her full-painted lips muse on her turbulent secret. The speckled dress pushed taut by the wind reveals her slender figure and the embonpoint of her breasts. He says she is beautiful and that hope springs within her. The frisson of the shutter adds to the rising pang of need. Instinctively, Amy suppresses it.

No, he says she is beautiful, forcing her to relent. Her fantasy rattles through her mind, expression and body. It is so remote here she could pose naked for him.

It is there on her face; she cannot suppress it anymore.

The shutter clicks again.

“Hungry, Jack?”

It is a flicker of her desires, and crimson-faced, Amy leaves her overt words there, hanging in mid-air. She waits, and each second is a personal agony until Jack smiles.

“Yes, let’s eat.”

There it is, the enigmatic congeniality of his neutral expression.

Her heart sinks because the moment has passed.

-6-

It sloshes into the plastic cup, “It stayed chilled just long enough to enjoy it properly.”

“We shouldn’t really,” opines Jack, “you need to drive us back.”

He holds out his cup for more.

“The light is good for hours yet. I will sober up.”

“Fair enough. So, if we have the time, I could use a walk later to stretch my legs. You?”

She nods, “Yes, we have plenty of time.”

As a picnic of simple fare, these are her favourite things to eat, and he asks her questions about her favourite subjects. The wine loosens her tongue, and words flow easily. Jack listens, attentive, happy to watch how her hands move to emphasise a point, to the curl on her lips and the sudden flash of her eyes.

They rest on a blanket under the hot sun, well-fed, drinking the last of the wine.

“You look relaxed, Jack. It suits you.”

“Am I not, normally?”

Amy smiles, “That frown you have, I wonder sometimes.”

Jack grins back. “My thinking face, I do it a lot.”

“And now? You are not thinking?”

He shakes his head, “No, but I wonder what you are thinking?”

“Oh, I am all talked out.”

A tilt of her head drapes her long tresses as a curtain, and she sweeps it from her face. Here, under the open sky, no walls or ceilings constrain her. She is the beauty of birdsong with the grace of the gentle breeze. Her body is not still like the sea. Amy is anxious, and this is now, the crux of her dreams. The intensity in her eyes is a cry for help. She seeks crumbs of comfort from his blank expression and glances at his lips. Wine is liquid courage for the shy or foolish, and her fingers meander from his forearm to his sturdy bicep.

“Amy…” Jack fumbles his words.

Her instinct will not take charge as her trembling hand advances. Alert eyes see no signs as delicate fingers caress his brawny shoulder. She cradles the back of his head and tilts her head in the universal language as old as time. The tension is palpable, and Jack does not protest. Her simpering lips home in, and he moves to reciprocate. Into the void with a sense deprived, the bonds of her old life are tested.

She places her petition onto his lips as a plea that tastes of hope and white wine.

“Amy… I…”

She presses forward, forcing him prone, and their bodies slot together. Her leg loops over his thigh. He will feel her heat now. Rearing up, her hand presses on his chest to lie down, and he scrabbles for words. Amy captures his lips to silence them. The caress of tongue against tongue makes his surprised moan buzz through her.

The realisation overwhelms, and a temptress kiss follows, full and unbridled. His gentle strength relents; the outline of his ardour presses against her leg. He wants her. For weeks, she ached for this, and it floods from her now. Taking his hand, she presses it to her breast.

He recoils as the last redoubt of decency.

“Amy… you can’t... what about?”

Old Amy would shrink into herself, spit apologies and run away, raining tears onto the parched earth.

Placing a solitary finger on his lips, she hushes him as an act of faith. “I left him this morning. I should have done it months ago. I cannot bear this any longer. I want you, and I… I...”

The space between his eyebrows creases, and they are lofted; it is not a frown. It is not anything Amy understands. She is the abandoned child, distracted by a moment of curiosity, bereft, searching... lost.

“I cannot help myself, Jack.”

She might sigh in defeat because this timid expression is the truth behind the façade.

Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, he does not turn away.

“Tell me you want me, Jack.”

“I...” he sighs, “I want you, God, I do…”

It rockets through her soul, and she lunges for him, wanton, lip-locked, and they snort for air. His broad hand, a shovel, surprises her with its deft touch. He rises and lays her prone. Amy’s desires jumble, every touch is random, and the passion scrambles her mind. Kneading her breast, he tantalises its hardened nub. She takes his hand and leads it between her thighs; he cups her sex.

Only flimsy, damp satin panties remain. Her hand pulls them aside, “Oh God, please... please.”

Jack’s eyes flick to her restless body, to her fettered breasts, and deep into her eyes. The seconds are hours until he sends her soft whimpers soaring. Hooked into an urgent kiss, he finds her clit, and Amy melts as their lips and tongues dance. The intimate caress rouses her body, collecting in her loins.

Every encounter left a residue of desire and silent sighs; they are the fuel for this lust. Her leg straddles his body, and she sits upright. This is madness, and the moment takes her. Nimble hands pull the dress over her head. Her nostrils fill with ozone, and she sweeps her hair to one side.

The breeze tingles the nape of her neck, and the enormity of what comes next makes her pause for thought. Suddenly afraid, swept away from the moment, she is bared in body and soul.

“Amy… this isn’t like you…”

“It is.” She turns away for a moment and finds her courage once more. “This is the truth. This is what you do to me.”

He gasps. “You are beautiful.”

Reaching out, she caresses his face. “You are, too.” Her upturned eyes plead; she takes his hand, pressing it to her breast. “I... I must do this, Jack.”

She is not Róisín; she is Amy, the church mouse, and she roars.

Determined fingers loose his belt buckle. The rasp of the metal fly breaks the silence, and seagulls cry. The internalised alarm on his face provokes a nervous giggle as she pulls on his shorts and underwear.

Róisín is not wrong.

Amy witnesses his need on those handsome features. Blood hot with a wonderful curve, only her fingertips meet around its girth. The rigid muscle in her hand swirls the pit of her stomach. He wants her as much as she does.

Jack tries to find words, but her kiss stalls any questions. Exchanging a glance, it might be hope in his eyes. The promise of a carnal act rests in hers.

He pulls her down, and they roll. He is strong, and Amy plays helpless. She lets him enjoy her slender body; strong hands swoop over every curve, and deft fingers remove her panties. Over her breasts, along her waist, feathers tickle her abdomen. Down to the confluence of her thighs, he spreads her juices, and a solitary digit penetrates her. Amy shows him its pleasure and writhes back and forth; she revels in her liberation.

She must rise and towers over him. Seizing his wrist, she takes the finger to her lips and sucks on it. This is craven, this is confidence, and the excitement sizzles through her. His arm makes a perfect arc and rests crooked above his head. Her eyes lock onto his, and she takes him in hand, guiding him there. Lewd, in a moment of sisterhood with Róisín, she rubs the juicy head against her soaked folds.

“Amy… oh, God…”

“Tell me you want this?”

“Yes… yes, I want this so much.”

Easing down, it pushes the air from her. A narrow-eyed gasp simpers her lips, and she moans. The delicate movement of careful hips engulf him in small increments, and the ecstasy soaks through her. She edges forward, and he sweeps back her hair that obscures her face. She pushes back, and the sweet friction softens every feature.

“How long…” she gasps. “When... when did you want this?”

“When I first saw you…”

“Why did you deny yourself?” Amy whimpers, braced against his torso.

“You were with someone.”

“Not anymore, I am with you now.”

He groans, “Yes, I want you, too.”

Alone in the open field, the tall hedgerow hides them from the farm track. The smear of slow hips keeps the promise to herself, and muscle memory provides her sultry eyes. Its fill boils her blood, and the need for patience fights with compulsion. Taken to the hilt, at the apex of their union, electricity ripples through her body.

She takes the tender kiss offered on his lips. “Be gentle with me, Jack.”

“Always.”

Tugging at his polo shirt, she frees it from his body. His shorts and underwear kicked free. Pressing down, she swirls her hips and grinds her clit against his pubic bone. The heft of thick muscle makes her throbbing sex pulse. Steering her body between the fine line of pleasure and pain, she drives down and pitches up. He matches her pace.

“Mmmm…” she purrs. “You are hungry.”

He groans and must swallow, “I can’t help it.”

A consoling hand caresses his face, “Don’t fight it. I watch you… I see you struggle. Give in, be yourself, and let me take you.”

The wonder in his expression does not need a reply. Weaving her fingers through his own, she holds his arms over his head.

Fully impaled, her knuckles whiten. “Fuck, you are magnificent.”

“Amy?”

Adapted to his girth, she drives down; it makes her breasts quiver.

“Oh fuck,” she gasps.

She lowers a hardened nipple to his mouth, and his velvet tongue flicks it. Hardwired to her sex, the clash of their bodies raises a chorus of moans. They clatter; he rears up and meets her at its apex. This is their rhythm, their union. They do not falter; there are no words, and nuance guides their actions. Steering her hips, she finds that familiar spot and pants to guide him. The clash of bodies rises over the thrill birdsong.

He growls, “You are amazing, please… don’t stop.”

As a fillip to her confidence, her hips rise and drop. Again, and then again, snug against her sodden walls, she is addicted. She slows; Jack is there for her. She takes him faster, and he is there too. He strives to match her, caress for caress, thrust for thrust. The walls of muscle tense; it seizes her effortless movements.

“I can’t... sit up like this… I… I…”

He leans up to meet her, “Like this.”

Guided into a lotus position, an outstretched arm is the purchase she needs. Eyelids weighted by desire, their unbroken stare propels her hips. The ratchet tightens with croaky gasps and urgent yelps. Pawing her breast, rolling its sensitive nipple, her restraint crumbles. This is her most intimate moment, and she wants Jack to see it. The prospect ravages her. Out of control with hot breath as rising moans, she writhes like quicksilver, and the vice-grip of her sex tightens.

Jack reveals his strength to carry her through the storm. He sweeps a hand over her fevered brow and holds her close.

“I’m going to... Oh, God... oh... ”

Her arms wrap around his neck; she has it, all of him. Her breasts mash to his torso, and her nostrils fill with his scent. He holds her firm, using his strength to flex her body against him. Pressed into the crook of his neck, she must flail as if possessed.

Ensconced, safe, and wanted, their feverish kiss, the tumult of her emotions triggers her release. Every sense is unified as the tremors rattle it loose. Amy must show him as the outpouring of angst and joy vents from her. Thrown into his arms, she shudders, her sex grasping against unyielding muscle as the crashing waves engulf her.

“Oh God, oh God…” Endlessly repeated until she halts, glowing, breathless.

Scooped up in his arms, Jack rolls her onto the blanket. Flushed, apple-cheeked, her bee-stung lips receive this loving kiss. He moves as her stallion with a fluid rhythm while she fights for air. Driven by that elusive sensation, he steals another kiss. He is no leaden weight, and she pulls him close, yelping in raptures.

Her calves caress his, slippery hands range over his muscular back, pulling and tightening. Her legs wrap around his hips.

“I want to feel you come.”

“Inside you?”

“Yes… yes… please.”

“Amy...”

They writhe loins-to-loins, eye-to-eye, and she bears down on his shaft. He groans and labours, each breath shallower than the last. She can feel how he thickens as his muscles tie up.

“I’m close.”

“Come inside me. I’m yours now.”

Their wet lips smear and tongues dance in his desperation, and Jack gallops faster. With a lunge, he falls into Amy’s arms and stabs hard. The spasms race faster than her rapid heart. The guile of her rhythmic hips massage to drain him, savouring every pulse.

Amy purrs. She is a woman now.

Breathless, serenaded by birdsong, they remain as one, cooled by the tepid breeze. Tender fingers run through his damp hair, and Jack stills. He rises, beams, and places his emotions onto her waiting lips.

“You okay?”

Amy nods slowly, “More than okay.”

He looks confounded, “Where did... I mean... that was...”

“Do that again, and you might find out.”

“I will, I just need...”

It is the easiest smile to give him, teasing, bewitching.

When they part, she glows, unafraid, contented, and at peace. Lying naked, they gaze into each other’s eyes. Her desires manifest for Jack to see - her inspiration.

She strokes his face, “Hello, boyfriend.”

It rouses a snort of amusement, “Hello, girlfriend.”

-7-

On brilliant white walls, vignettes of oil on canvas hang for the appraisal of others. Amy smiles at him from afar. Jack deals with another journalist, just the local newspaper this time, and an old friend. Time does not age him, and he stands proudly as always. They shake hands and depart; his roguish smile still makes her body sing.

It does not waver as he makes his way to her. She sees it in his eyes, and every distinguished line on that genial face tells a story – their story. Everyday, he tells her, and they rode the rollercoaster of life together, side-by-side.

“Hello, my silver fox. Have you had enough adulation for one day?”

“Your love is all that matters, Amy.”

She sniggers, “Silver Fox? Silver-tongued devil more like.”

“He wanted to know who the woman in the picture was, the vivacious beauty in the speckled dress. He wonders what that smile and the twinkle in her eyes meant.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

“They all did, you... are famous.”

It took Jack a lifetime to summon the courage and paint that picture. With each heartfelt sweep of the palette knife, every one of those thousands distilled his emotions. He walked away, ran his fingers through his silver mane, stared, shook his head... held it in his hands. Jack talked to Amy to relive old memories, for their life now, as nostalgia... as truth.

On the wall, it is ignored, peered at, scrutinised, and adored. It is Amy, it is them both. It is Jack’s last picture after a long, successful career as an artist. Now, he will paint for fun, like they did so many years ago. Amy and her man, the wonderful father, loving husband, and her soulmate for life.

Jack grins, “It is our secret and always will be. It is not for sale.”

And with a kiss, they are forever young.