There’s no bread left.
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with this information.
Action verbs are not his forte.
He counts the blades of the ceiling fan and thinks about The Mistress.
They’ve been hanging out a lot lately, and-
She saunters in.
“There’s no bread.”
Damnit. Action verbs.
“I know.”
Silence.
“Were you planning on doing anything about it?”
He considers his options, and settles on honesty dipped lightly in essence of acerbity.
“I was getting there.”
She gives him a Look, walks over to the bookshelf, and pulls out Oxford’s. After briefly flipping through the rice-paper pages, she underlines something and hands it to him.
He reads: gerund (N)...
“Smart-ass.”
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with this information.
Action verbs are not his forte.
He counts the blades of the ceiling fan and thinks about The Mistress.
They’ve been hanging out a lot lately, and-
She saunters in.
“There’s no bread.”
Damnit. Action verbs.
“I know.”
Silence.
“Were you planning on doing anything about it?”
He considers his options, and settles on honesty dipped lightly in essence of acerbity.
“I was getting there.”
She gives him a Look, walks over to the bookshelf, and pulls out Oxford’s. After briefly flipping through the rice-paper pages, she underlines something and hands it to him.
He reads: gerund (N)...
“Smart-ass.”
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