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French Toast

James stood at the lake; the dawn mist cleared to reveal the sunrise. Images of his wife Iris ran through his head. Her waking and padding to the kitchen, meditating on the deck. Iris watching him as he made them breakfast. Their nightcaps watching the sun go down. He made his decision.


‘French toast? You’re in a good mood.’

‘Let’s go travelling.’

‘Can we afford it? ‘

‘If I sell my stuff and we write on the road. I think we’ll be ok.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Yep. Losing it all, made me realise, its stuff that keeps us where we are and what matters is us.’

Iris kissed him.

‘That must have been some sunrise.’

‘It was. Come with me tomorrow.’

‘You know what I just might.’


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