You sent me postcards from far-off places I wrote about but have still never reached. They turned up on the doormat from time to time, sandwiched between final demands and thanks but no thanks for your recent job application. Occasionally, you bought ill-judged gifts and shrugged off my thanks. You routinely kept me waiting in restaurants. Blissfully unaware of the fairytale, you were surprised when I reached my limit. A simple truth remains. Once upon a time, very long ago, there was a girl who dreamed of a man with black hair and green eyes like her own.
© Sarah Smith 2011
sarah smith writer 