“It really looks pretty much the same as it did when I was last here thirty years ago,” Chester told his wife. “Blakes, the restaurant and B’nB is still here, I see. But I don’t recall the place next to it being a bridal shop.”
“It’s kinda bleak looking,” Charlotte said to her husband.
“Well, it’s cloudy, it’s late on a Sunday afternoon, and it’s the middle of winter,” Chester said, somewhat defensively. “It’s more alive during the week and during the warmer months.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Charlotte said.
“I thought you’d enjoy seeing the town where I spent my formative years,” Chester said.
“I do, actually,” Charlotte admitted. “It’s quaint and almost storybook-like, perhaps like something out of Dickens.”
“That’s great,” Chester beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. I loved growing up here.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “It also explains a lot to me about who you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so, well, Dickensian, like you should have lived in the 19th century,” Charlotte said.
“Dickensian as in Charles Dickens?”
“Well,” said Chester, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
Written for today’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: A Mixed Bag.