Sunday, February 7th, day 252
Wee hours of the morning
Whitechapel inn, upstairs
This is why I hate weekends. I’m told that people in other lines of work actually enjoy them, use them to go out and generally have the good time they can’t other nights, when they have to get up and work in the morning. The difficulty I have with this is that the places
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I find my way back to bed and lie down with my back to him. God, this man is like a furnace. If he wants to put an arm over me and spoon up around me, he won’t hear any complaints. Yet another reason to hope he visits regularly. “I’ll be here a year, maybe, and then I’m gone. Get bored, staying too long in one place, no matter how good it is. Need to see somewhere new.” I listen to myself say this, feeling warm and sleepy and still a bit sluggish from the sex. It sounds ridiculous, but I know it won’t feel that way in a year’s time. Don’t want to think that far ahead now, though. Just want to enjoy being here and feeling like this, save up the memory for when the bed’s cold or when there’s no bed at all.
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"Hah," I yawn. "Better stick to that plan. Otherwise you'll suddenly decide Excolo has need of fine cheese and start buying cows one day. Town does that to people." It does and that's probably why I'm still here. The dark weighs on my eyes and I feel bone tired like I do in the middle of summer.
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I can feel him relaxing at my back, and if I lean into him to soak up the heat, well, the bed’s not overly large for two men. It’s been a long night, none of it bad, and the end of it very good. Didn’t expect this from the man sitting at the end of my bar looking cold. He’s not cold at all now. Could do with more nights ending this way. Hope this works out, our arrangement, that no hard feelings come of it. God knows everyone has their troubles, some worse than others. But here we are, warm in this night. Not a bad thing at all.
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