--> Barefooted, I padded down the long main hallway to our bedroom. Floor to ceiling doors opened onto the front veranda. Wrapping arms around the tall Australian, I lay my head on his chest and murmured, "Guess I am a tad lagged. It's good to be here. I could never have imagined how lovely your home has turned out to be, no matter how many pictures you sent."
The timbers of the house creaked that evening. For more years than anyone ever counted, this expansion and contraction echoed through the open doors. After sunset, breezes cooled our heated reunion.
The croaking of summer frogs, the constant cicada, the screeching of fruit bats whose shadows could be seen in the glow of not so distant city lights, existed for generations no matter who made love in the bedrooms at the front of the house.