citydrowns

'There was a disreputable encounter no less than twelve nicks of a roundabout, but neither he nor I could make sense of the thing,' she said, words dangling soggily like poignant Victorian overcast. She balanced the silverware cautiously, almost to the extent of over-protection, but was unable to take into consideration the effect to which the glaring candlelight danced away like a fire-furnace. 'And nor does my patience permit any extra dollymopping, so perhaps we should mend the issue.'


And within several possessions of a Trinitron screen they did have a go of it, and his reclamation deemed necessary her apparent surprise. 'Well this is new,' she said in-between breaths. The windowsill held station over the presiding morning flood banked notoriously and sharply angled to the paired amalgam of Swedish homage and New York complexity, wherein personalities of sports, music, politics and popular culture flourished unabated, by willpower alone.


He started. 'No, it's not.' He paused. 'But I'm glad you noticed.' In that momentary glint of consideration he took time to examine the curiously ribbed window-boxes, their faded black branches sorted in a matchbox criss-cross pattern intersecting six times on the horizontal and three times on the vertical, evenly spaced.


'Well that was wonderful,' she said. 'I'm going to put on the tea, don't forget to remind me.'


'I never do, not even once.' he replied.


'Hogwash. Don't spoil my temperament with your nonsense.'


Were there to be a satchel rimmed with honey-dew, not even Ms. Brollixworth could pry it free, and the comfortable analogy suited quite well once the aftermath was recapitulated. Again, and again.