They woke together for the first time; in the bed that they had spent many idle lunch hours in — her bed — musing about how, one day, it might be their bed.
It was no longer lunchtime, but a Tuesday morning. Her damp room smelled of the downstairs flat’s breakfast; frying oil and toast. A fly hummed over the door.
He groaned at the light pressing through the grimy windows, and the smell.
She stirred and rubbed her eyes, leaving her eyebrows pointing up at contradictory angles.
He mumbled, “good morning.”
“Coffee?” She asked.
“No thanks. I don’t like hot drinks.”
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