I would read every piece of information that I could find about him, get to know him properly—
after all, I’m very good at research, and at problem solving. I don’t mean to boast; I’m merely stating the facts.
Finding out more about him was the right thing to do, the sensible approach, if it turned out that he was going to be the love of my life.
I picked up the brandy, a new notebook and a fine-tipped pen that I’d borrowed from the office,
and went over to the sofa, ready to make a start on my plan of action.
The brandy was both warming and soothing, and I kept sipping.
When I awoke, it was just after 3 a.m., and the pen and notebook were lying on the floor.
Slowly, I recalled getting sidetracked, starting to daydream as the brandy slipped down.
The backs of my hands were tattooed with black ink, his name written there over and over,
inscribed inside love hearts, so that barely an inch of skin remained unsullied.
A mouthful of brandy remained in the bottle. I downed it and went to bed.
Why him? Why now? On Monday morning, waiting at the bus stop, I tried to work it out.
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