And so the night went on, logistics threaded with sympathy seeking through a cloth of a falsely truly devastating circumstance.

How did he end up promising to talk to his landlord on her behalf? His favorite linen shop? The constabulary? (Alright. That was an easier one to answer.)

The spilt tea, caked with sugar in all the wrong places, remained untouched.

God. One night felt like it went on for months.