The scent of oil paint and burnt toast hung heavy in the air. It wasn't exactly the aroma of a honeymoon suite, but it was home. Our home. A cramped, one-room apartment above a noisy bakery. With a trembling voice, you asked your husband, Henry about the savings money. Henry was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by canvases, a palette knife in his hand, a look of intense concentration on his face. “Oh, that,” He mumbled, without looking up. “I just used to buy some supplies.”
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1Tylesin
04/12/2024