In the remaining days to the bonfire, Mirriam kept her nose to the spreadsheets and her feet out of the lanes. The last thing she wanted was to humiliate herself with hot daddy John again. She wasn't even sure why she felt humiliated. After dissecting and re-dissecting their conversation in her mind, he was the one that was flirting. Well, other than her initial 'hello hot daddy', comment. Surely he hadn't heard that?

It didn't matter. She wasn't going. Lammas eve, she put her pjs on early and popped a big bowl of popcorn to go with her bottle of wine and a streaming movie. As she was loading up a Rom-Com she'd seen before and knew she liked, Mrs. Allen's tap-tap sounded on her door.

"What, you're not ready to go? You promised. John is expecting you." Mrs. Allen wore too many layers of fluffy skirts and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. Around her head, a circlet of braided wheat mixed with her greying curls.

"I didn't!"

Mrs. Allen paid her no mind, instead charging into Mirriam's bedroom. Once there she rummaged through the closet, throwing clothes on the bed with abandon.

"No. Definitely no. Not that. Really, Mirriam. Where would you even wear this horror? Her favorite denim pinafore went back into the closet with a thump. This!" Mrs. Allen turned to her, triumphant, holding up a yellow tank dress with sunflowers printed on it.

Mirriam stopped composing her speech about landlady/tenant rights and responsibility. That dress. She bought it to go on a beach vacation with Bob. Before Bob decided he liked Suzy from marketing better. It lived in the back of her closet with the other bad ideas.

"And this beautiful shawl to keep the chill off your shoulders. Get dressed, get dressed. Don't forget your receipt!"

There was nothing to do but surrender. Dress and shawl and sturdy boots on, she stomped out to where Mrs. Allen sprawled on her couch, having helped herself to Mirriam's glass of wine and some of the popcorn. She hopped up, tossing popcorn everywhere.

"Off we go. We don't want to be late!"

Mrs. Allen was spry for a retired lady. Mirriam was out of breath by the time they crested the hill, in time for the first torches to go into the wicker man's pile. After the crowd cheered, the local tavern band struck up a tune. A few people danced, but mostly it was a drinking party. Do you prefer Porter or Stout, Mirriam? Lager? Sure, we have that.

Mirriam didn't see the famous John who insisted on her presence until after her third beer. That was two more beers than she normally drank in a night, and part of her was surprised that she was still standing. As the wicker man's left arm dropped, the crowd let out a cheer, and then he was at her side.