It was summer. The sun emitted bright, golden rays on the park. The benches shone as it reflects under the sky’s gaze like a metal placed near a reflecting mirror and like a nosy fellow, the daffodils peered through the flowerbeds down the parking space area and glinted with its yellow derm appealing to the by-passers. Mandy Jone sat, her palms enclosed in Mark’s. She beamed as little Pauline swirled her tiny waist in her Cybron James new design - a flannel gown. She had a daffodil in her hair, at the base as Mandy heard her whine - shoving off his brother, Paul like a narcissist with her white glazed shoes stamping the green-bodied field. “Kids are quite funny, full of love, fun and tricks.” Mandy’s heart throbbed, startled by the voice which has become part of her rigmarole for her to attend to, today. She was still there, on a park bench 4ft far from theirs. The young, slender, fluent interviewer with glassy, bluish and glistening eyes despite being under
