The Coochie Diaries
Imogen was carefully training a creamy-white ‘Alba’ rose to frame the stone face.
“Who is she supposed to be?” Milo asked, steadying the ladder Imogen stood on.
“No one knows,” Imogen said, her voice slightly strained as she reached to secure a stem. “Maybe an ideal. A muse. A goddess of the garden.”
“She looks like you,” he said, his voice quiet.
Imogen nearly lost her balance. She looked down at him. He was staring up at her, his face open, his statement simple and devastating.
“She’s covered in lichen,” Imogen managed, her heart hammering.
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