He took her to his place, and they had tea and biscuits.
Rain poured outside.
She wanted to go home, but he did not let her; she did not have an umbrella, and he did not trust her enough to lend her his.
‘Where will I sleep?’
‘In the bathtub.’
I write as a way of life: books, blogs, articles, almost-poems. I'm a freelancer, a vegetarian, and I listen to Leonard Cohen and enjoy French films. We are dying a little more with each new day we live, so shouldn't we make the most of our time?
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