So he’d been driving. Stunk of guilt and gin. She was ok. She said. Psychotic. I’m not judging. The bar was very,very dark. Back door open. Draught. But ok. We talked. The unborn crowded round to listen. You could tell. The way you know it’s snowing without seeing. Tall bar stools, slippy, black. We settled the issue. Wrote in our notebooks. Exchanged what needed exchanging. He left first. She said, ‘Is this really happening?’ But I’d gone too.

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