Here's a little excerpt from the story I'm working on:
"My place, I guess. It's not very far from here." He said. Sumiko froze. "Your place?" Hemingway nodded. "Sure. It's kinda small, but it's clean... and warmer than out here. I got coffee, tea, and cocoa too. Just an added bonus I'd let you know about."
Sumiko and Hemingway laughed. "But seriously, you can come. No strings attatched." He said in an effortless tone. Sumiko was in awe of this rather rapid relationship. She didn't even know if they were even friends. But what she felt, it was if they were kindred souls. "Can I come now?" Sumiko asked.
Hemingway got up from the bench and then held his hand out to Sumiko to help her up. Sumiko grasped Hemingway's hand and held it the whole time they walked to his house, which was right up the street. Hemingway lived in a modest studio apartment with photographs and paintings that lined the walls. Most of the furniture was fdrom a second-hand shop, or at least looked like it. The smell of clean laundry in the air was rather comforting.
Any thoughts? Please comment if you want to give me a piece of your mind.
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