The cloth was wrinkled and twisted from the struggle. His forehead was damp, and he lay his forearm across it and stared across the room at the clock. Its pendulum rotated and gathered momentum only to slow and reverse its course. He watched it for a time and slid out of the bed to dress.
Dave NewellStichwörter: literary-fiction
Crying on the kitchen floor, she looked up and gasped for breath, raking tears from her pale cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered. “Someone.
Dave NewellJust this morning you didn't seem as though you had an aversion to me. You're here in your dying patient's house, eating dinner with his wife, drinking his whiskey and watching his wife play the piano in a dark room," she shook her head and pouted her lips. "You're already in bed with me.
Dave NewellSeite 1 von 1.
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