Work was great, thanks. Really busy, the day just flew. What’s for dinner?
Mark left his oxfords at the door, carefully hung his bespoke suit jacket, loosened his silk tie. Paul paused, leaving the ragu simmering as he gave Mark a hug. Paul cooked with love, and the kitchen of their inner-city condo was awash with the hearty aromas of his adoration.
Mark filled sparkling crystal glasses with his favourite merlot and set the table. Tonight, a deep blue tablecloth, with burnt orange napkins. Polished cutlery faintly glistened in the candlelight.
With an end of day weariness, Mark ran a bath after dinner. The custom-made polished granite tub beckoned invitingly. As Mark pulled off his pleated trousers, a crumpled-up paper fell from his pocket. He smoothed out the bank statement, before scrunching it once more, concerned. He would tell Paul. But not yet. He had more time.
Mark stepped out into the daylight in his oxfords, a pin-stripe suit, and a crisp white shirt. Drinks after work? Paul agreed, closing the door. Mark strode towards the office, stopped, checked to see Paul was nowhere nearby, then diverted to the tram stop. Alighting the Number 11 at Southern Cross station, he rode the tram to the corner of Spring St and Collins St, and then back, all day. He had done this every day for the last fortnight, taking full advantage of the “Free Tram Zone”. He felt sure he would get another job soon.
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