SUMMERHOUSE
The summerhouse was our place, where we drank wine and
made love to the sound of wavelets lapping the lake shore.
It was there where, one glorious sun-dappled afternoon,
we made our vows, and sprinkled rose petals on the water to thank the gods for
our good fortune.
But the gods of love are fickle creatures, who waft a curtain
of rosy gossamer over their victims’ eyes. Love couldn’t survive the chill wind
of reality, and now those dreams are frozen under a blanket of lies and broken
promises.
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The building in Dale Rogerson's photo is clearly intended for summer use - you'd get a very cold bottom on those seats, though the view would be glorious. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog https://rochellewisoff.com/ from where you can follow the frog link to read other stories prompted by the photo.
