That still summer night the street-lights were shining white through the lower branches of the trees, making – as we walked below – a shifting fretwork of black leaves. I unexpectedly got invited into a household that had the look of, if not servants, a coming-in cleaner. Despite the vase of yellow and orange flowers precisely centred on the low table’s lustre, I reassured myself that come morning my very keen host would have stale cheese breath. Small comfort. Wherever I went, bathroom to bed, I remained untidily out of place.
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Sam Smith
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