Some time in the early hours of the morning, I find myself staring at him in the dim bedroom light, at the strong, lithe form of him. His back has a curve to it like the sweep of a boat. I steal out a hand to stroke it, wondering whether he's awake, when he turns and his eyes glint at me.
"Do you sail?" I say, half sleepily.
"No. Used to row, though."
"Huh." I nod my head: That makes sense.
"Do you sail?" I say, half sleepily.
"No. Used to row, though."
"Huh." I nod my head: That makes sense.
( Sophie Kinsella )
[ I Owe You One ]
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