July 7, 2020 by petrujviljoen
Candice, else known as Candida, lowers her head to the rim of the glass. It holds the last champagne. She insisted, as always, on a clean glass, the table wiped.
The Mister, else known as The Mistral, has been and gone not leaving a trace. Not a scent. Not even. No evidence of his having been (with her). Ever.
Linked to The Sunday Muse #115