“Evening.” Said she, cold as ice.

“Bonjour, mon amour.” Replied Solomon with a smile that sailed across the open-plan kitchen dining area to fall dead at Angelique’s feet.

“Words of a poet, wallet of a pauper.” She retorted, languid and dis-interested. Solomon persisted though.

“Now, that’s hardly true, is it?” He murmured, flicking on the kettle and reaching for the camomile (Jonah’s reccomendation, he’d have taken coffee any day.) Ange just sniffed, curled herself with feline nonchalance onto the couch and grabbed up the paper. Their lounge-diner was a fine thing, built up in fiery days of passion and love. A couch divide the room neatly between the cellar door and the main hall of the house. All was warm and solid woods, the tones of the walls selected by his wife (notorious in her youth for an artistic flair.)


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