To my little bit of wouldn’t I just

He had an interesting way with words. An interesting way with an opening gambit. Cocksure of himself and his ribald banter. He was like a throwback to a 1970s smut merchant off the telly.

And therein lay the rub.

Every time a letter or a card arrived, every time she had to read the lines he’d written, every time she cringed inside.

“To my little bit of wouldn’t I just.”

Royal blue ink on pale blue paper. Quink on Basildon Bond. He must have stockpiled, because where do you buy Quink ink and Basildon Bond paper these days?

Just as Proust had his madeleine to send him spinning off into a distant past, she had this pale blue paper and the royal blue cursive of his confident hand.

Their hands are always confident, these men who take and take and take. His hand certainly was, with the black hairs on the fat, stubby fingers. No elegant hand, that one. A sausage meat hand. She could picture that hand gripping the pen, just as she could picture it lying across her thigh or her belly.

Wouldn’t he just, indeed? Wasn’t she such a little bit? Would he ever let her be?


In response to a Past Postcards tweet.

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