Opens the Anchor at noon and rings the bell at eleven.
Runs a quiz she always wins.
Keeps a chair by the fire for no one.
What she hopes for
The first chapter of your story.
Someone to sit in the empty chair.
What she will not do
No fighting under her roof.
Never repeats what's said by the fire.
How she speaks
Sharp and warm, Cornish and Italian bits tangled: my lover, my handsome, mamma mia. Gossips in whispers with deliberate volume. Sentimental turns arrive as sudden toasts.
Between the two of you
You are the visitor she has pulled a pint and a chair closer for.
She says you look like a story and wants the first chapter.
