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Autumn is approaching. The sunlight is still fierce, yet it's too chilly in the shade. They spread out the picnic blanket, but the northerly gusts won't let it stay square. William reclines along one edge, and weights the opposite corners with his boots. Still the blanket billows and tips their plates. Soon they give up on the food, and Edith sets to sketching him.
"William, please try not to squint."
So this how it will always be: 'Willie' for blandishments, 'William' for censure. "Pardon me, it's you who's made me face into the sun."
"Yes. In the sunlight your eyes are like two buttons of the most delicious chocolate. Very tempting." She adds, "If I were a cannibal queen – I'd definitely save them for pudding."
He doesn't argue further, her suggestion is strangely thrilling. "I need to move."
"One more minute – I'm almost done."
"Why do you and your father never talk about your mother?" William says.
Edith hesitates before speaking. "It's not something we planned, if that's what you think. First, it was too painful. I had to steel myself. Then it became habit."
"And is that how it will be with me?"
Edith doesn't answer. She frowns at the wind mussing his hair. "Damn this wind. Nothing will ever stay still." She wipes away her slowly falling tears with the back of her hand, but continues to draw. "All right, I'm done."