The Return, by Guy Fletcher

I had returned to the rural town of my youth for the funeral of a dear old friend: a stark reminder of the transience of existence, as fleeting as morning dew.

I decided upon a stroll and in a park viewed a corpulent woman on a bench gulping wine from a bottle.

“Guy, it is you, isn’t it?” she slurred. I didn’t know this woman. Oh, yes I did!

“Hello, Julie. Lovely to see you,” I lied.

I was once enthralled by her beauty; she planned to travel the world, but it seems she only made it to the local park.


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