esketchler

"Your husband is expected to arrive any time today. Not to assume anything, Missus Hamilton, but surely-" "I will get ready soon, Ruth, I promise. I only need but a minuet." In a creaky-windowed house tucked into the center of Philadelphia, a woman in a night gown slowly rocked in her wooden chair, humming to herself. Her dark cinnamon eyes were closed, focusing on her song as she patted her stomach. The woman's hair was tucked messily into a Dutch bun, the cold chain that hung around her neck nearly getting tangled in the brunette strands. She reached up to grasp it; in a bag tied to it was a sonnet written by her husband. My husband, she