I met her at my daughters eighteenth birthday party. A fresh faced girl with lollipop eyes and lips of raspberry kisses. She had pale hair, almost white but I knew straight away that was an illusion created by the craft of a hair stylist. When my daughter, Rebecca, introduced us her smile poured sweet honey on my soul and I knew I was hopelessly in love. Miserably in love, as age-wise she could have been Rebeccas twin while I, after forty-six summers, was definitely uncle material at the very least. Cindy Holbrook gave a hip-high wave as my daughter told her, "My dad, Peter Farrell"
"Hi mister Farrell." Her voice tinkled in the warm summer air and an image of crystal wind chimes flickered briefly in my mind.
"Charmed, Cindy." Great, I managed not to stutter or drool while my handshake was dry and firm without being overpowering as I grasped her delicate fingers and squeezed briefly. My generation doesnt shake a womans hand. It has never been etiquette with us. I let go and felt...
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