I remember her, Marion. My age, petite, pony-tailed, eloquent, charming, exquisite.
I walked with her in the park once, with our parents trailing behind. I reached out and held her hand, and she gripped back, and we must have been the picture of innocence. Two kids, barely 9, unfettered with adult concerns, untouched by time.
"Teng! You must ask her before you hold her hand!"
I let go, turned to her, completely unashamed, took a little bow, "Miss Marion, may I please hold your hand?"
A little bob of the head, a child's rendition of a curtsey, "Yes, you may."
And so we held hands again, and walked on in that seemingly endless park.
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