It is early evening, New years’ Eve to be precise, in Innapropriate Manor, a pink stucco Casa in Lima, Peru. In her new pink night gown, large, dusty feet bare, Clementine stands at the sink washing a lettuce.

Godfrey is trying to finish a cross word puzzle, his passion for Clementine nearly equals his dislike of beets. It inspires his most lyrical works, as she later recorded in her journal…”.When I think thought romantic, like lunch warm from a bag beneath the stars, or dinner with you and no dishes piled high, eating oer’ the sink beside you, ripe mangoes dripping, watching wild burros in full flight, singing neath your bed chamber window on a snowy night…Oh Clementine, Clementine show me oh do, that lovely spot where hides your tattoo, may I trace gently for it is my wish ,to trace that scar on your brow from filleting fish.”

..Almonds in coffee, your eyes gold and brown. Sling me over your shoulder and carry me cross  town, toss me over the garden gate that’s alright to, oh my love do. Peek under my kilt as we run down the sand, laugh together as we dance hand in hand.  Let us write shocking letters home to my mother, and Beatrice in hope that they will be nice to each other. The night was so silent I could hear cattle settling down..Godfrey still playing, his singing voice wafting out over the town. He sang,” Oh my Clementine, fish ladies’ daughter, you are the grit that is my pearl”.. What utter crap my dear I lay there thinking,I am only a lowly fish ladies’ girl..and so he sang on and his words lulled by me, to sweet sleep I drifted on thoughts of spice cake and cream buns, no beets, no one yelling Shut-up Godfrey, together at last, his song it was sung..


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