I saw the old lady come here again today, just like the last week and the week before that. She walked slowly, her whole frame seemingly creaking and protesting against the slightest of movements. She came in with a small plastic bag clutched close to her heart, the other hand leaning heavily on her walking stick.
Gertrude, who hardly ever was pleasant, smiled and nodded at her. I was intrigued.
Pestering Gertrude was the only way to know.
For the past 27 years that Gertrude had worked here, in the small old film theatre, she had seen the old woman and the man walk in every Wednesday. The old lady would make her choco-chip cookies and they would sit there quietly nibbling and holding hands. It had been now 6 years since he died. She still came here every Wednesday with an air-proofed bag clutched in hands.
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I would recall a vision which I dreamed-The Dream by Lord Byron
Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.