He’s rough when he steps into the kitchen, tie loose, bags under his eyes, hair shower-clean but skewiff. He sits at the little wooden table and she hands him a cup of coffee. He grunts thanks and takes a sip; it’s too hot, immediately burns him, but he doesn’t give any sign. She watches him across the table, takes a seat. He doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes down on the catalogue in front of him, tedious stuff: milk is down, a special, two dollars for two litres.
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