That's all Eleanor seemed to be. Mediocre. As she went about her days, all melting together to one monotonous loop of actions, all she could be described as was mediocre. Nothing she did or created or said were outstanding.
She walked down a cobble road, a pebble caught in her shoe. Her posture was poor, her face was sour, the basket under her arm far too heavy and uncomfortable. And as she walked, she muttered. Her words were far too slurred to be understood by others, and some of the children in town were convinced they were awful curses being set upon the townsfolk. But if one listened carefully and patiently, they would realize she was muttering hymns and poems. Delicate words from such a hardened individual, like a feather swirling in a thunderstorm.
If said listener had also listened to chatter around town, they would discover that the hymns and poems were by Mary. Gentle and quiet and sweet Mary. Eleanor's Mary.
YOU ARE READING
Almost Touching
RomanceEleanor was an aggressive and cold woman. Mary was a pious widow. Was their love meant to be?
