He began as a drummer. She studied biology and botany.
He was a man of few words. She was widely read.
He was younger than her. She longed for a little more excitement.
He was warm and tender toward her. She thought he’d mistaken her for someone else.
He walked her home to her door. She matched her steps to his.
He drew a map. She bent her head to study the plans.
He put one hand over her shoulder and one around her waist. She liked the shape of his nose.
They wed a week after meeting.
She gave birth to a son. He worked like a demon.
She strove to be the perfect wife. He was a model husband and father.
She was forever pushing her hair out of her eyes. He waltzed her around the table.
The rest, as they say, is history.
He went out to the store.
She passed away peacefully in her sleep.
He reached out a hand and touched her forehead.
She was the love of his life.
He went downstairs, holding tight to the banisters.
What an extraordinary woman she was, to be sure.
Source: New Oxford American Dictionary
When I was seventeen, I packed my bags and left home; I had an opportunity to go to New York and study. I left with a mixture of sadness and joy—my family needed the money, so I was obliged to work, but I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was an experience I will remember for the rest of my life.
We met during the first harsh winter after the war. The ground was covered with ice, and the streets were full of children dressed in rags. I was alone in a strange city, a girl in a mangy fur coat. She was a second-generation American, a woman of supernatural beauty. She reminded me, in some indefinable way, of my grandmother.
We went everywhere together. Her parents were both art collectors, so she was a regular visitor to the museum. She knew all the Manhattan hot spots for classy blues and retro jazz. I stood blinking in bright light. She knew what she was doing; a girl of seventeen is highly impressionable.
To a certain degree I am romancing the past, but the past is impossible to recall with any approach to accuracy. She left New York on June 6. She left a note for me. Eyes blinded with tears, I lay on the lumpy bed and listened to the noise of traffic outside as the windows rattled in the wind. I missed my mother’s homemade bread.
Sources: Collins COBUILD Primary Learner’s Dictionary, New Oxford American Dictionary
I never believed in love spells or magic until I met this spellcaster. With a deft motion of his nimble fingers, he materialized a taxi out of nowhere, conjured up a most delicious homemade stew, and transformed a bare stage into an enchanted forest. We got engaged on my twenty-sixth birthday, disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, and bought a place on the lake. A magician and his glam assistant in domestic felicity.
Sources: New Oxford American Dictionary, Collins COBUILD Primary Learner’s Dictionary, The American Heritage Dictionary