The next day I go back to the cafe hoping to see her there again. I sit down and wait. The next time I look the time is four in the afternoon. Then an...hour later she finally shows up. She sits down next to me and she tells me that she’s been thinking about last night. She tells me that she’s sorry that she ran off. I told her it’s alright, I was moving a little too fast. She smiles at me and I tell her that I’m sorry too. I said, ‘I’m sorry dear, I’ll move this relationship along slower for. "They look like breasts," Helen said finally after having a close look at the "tumors." Don't be ridiculous," Jack huffed. "I'm a man. Men don't have breasts. They're tumors." His outrage had at least stopped his crying. But Jack was wrong. They were indeed breasts. And what a pair of hooters they were! Any woman alive would have been proud to have possessed this perfect pair of tit flesh. But since Jack was a man and a not so proud possessor of these lovely jugs, they looked totally out of. They truly enjoyed Scotland. The people were hospitable and their accent was quite fascinating. Perhaps not as enchanting as the Irish but they loved the brogue just the same. They tried some of the unique cuisine, including haggis, deciding it tasted much better than its description. Salmon was common on the menu at every stop.They enjoyed the ceilidh that was staged after the evening meal in Inverness. The dances were lively and the music was as well with fiddle, accordion, and penny whistle.. This story is dedicated to my friend and fellow author Warm Hearted, whohas called me his cheerleader. We have become good friends andconfidants, sharing comments and ideas on our stories as well asmessaging and emailing each other regularly.I can never find the proper words to say thanks to my editor and friendChris, who finds the time in a very busy life to review my ramblingswith comments and insights. Chris continues to edit for others as wellas writing and posting his own stories.All.