The lighthouse keeper was my first love.
Everything about his work, manner, quiet brevity of speech—and wind-blushed cheeks—fascinated me, made me tingly whenever I thought of him.
When I’d see him by “arranged happenstance”, my knees turned to jelly, just drinking in his fine mature handsomeness.
I learned that if I posed intelligent questions, I could keep him talking an hour, more.
Often I asked about astronomy, mythology, sailing, art—for he was a man formerly of the sea, who painted canvases in his leisure.
The lighthouse keeper was my only love. His ghost comes on the fog.
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