Just my type

I open my eyes; the clock shows 05.45. Light already, but far too early to rise. I look at the B&W picture in a pretty oval frame. A beautiful girl of about 18 with long fair hair framing her pretty face. Yes, she was just my type. How could I not have loved her?

It's the only photograph I have there to remind me. It's precious. It's the one artefact I would save if the room caught fire. I wonder where she is now?

I turn over. Ah, there she is, sleeping, just as pretty, even lovelier. Just my type.