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It was a lovely morning. But, then, it was always a lovely morning in San Diego. A Mr. Branson, retired, henpecked, was out tending his garden bright and early. His wife was pleased with his sudden interest in gardening. Actually, old Branson didn’t care a hang about flowers or lawns, they were all weeds to him. What he did care about and why he was out in the garden bright and early every morning was for the pleasure and excitement of seeing their neighbor, young Gail Hanover, walk out of her house and down to the mailbox and then back up the path again.
On what Branson called “good days” she would open the mail then walk slowly back up the path to the house. The slower, the better, for Branson’s interests. This particular morning, he positioned himself in a corner of the yard, crouching over a bed of marigolds and pretending to dig while his eyes looked through his bushy eyebrows and he waited.
And Gail was well worth the waiting. Yesterday, she had come down to the mailbox dressed in a lounging gown and old Branson had gritted his teeth against his anger at being disappointed then almost fell in a bed of tulips as, while she was opening the mail, her gown fell open and he saw one leg up to the hip bone. It was an indelible image he would savor late at night while lying next to his snoring wife. She was wearing high heels under the gown and her leg showed itself off beautifully with slim tapered ankles curving out into well-rounded calves.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.