Maggie has parked her implacable arse in its usual spot on the edge of the stone retaining wall that keeps my terraced garden from invading the house. She has a cigarette in one hand and a globe of semillon in the other. The glass sliding door is open only enough so that I can hear her from the kitchen, where I am throwing a salad together. Her crossed legs don’t quite reach the ground and she dangles her flat suede shoes off her toes while her substantial calves stretch...
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