A freshly baked blueberry pie rested on his doorstep.
What floundering tippler misplaced this pastry at first light?
He jested, perhaps it was left with intention — sans-poison.
Crafted with affection? Hah! Nothing, but a dream, he gleaned.
No lady could ever love a beast as frightening as he.
A feminine squeak. She unceremoniously toppled out from his shrubs.
He froze at the sight until — he felt a note tucked beneath the confection?
Her cheeks flushed, she looked up at him, eyes brimming with endearment.
Art By Abigail Larson
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