No recognition, no regret, certainly no fucking apology. I notice that, just like I notice those eyes of his are the deep green of winter firs. I really wish they weren’t. I like green things. He has a dusting of cinnamon freckles across his nose, which is a piss-take, because I like cinnamon too. The terrible lighting at the pub didn’t do him justice, which is bad news for the rhythm of my heart. Thank God I don’t like him, or I might be in trouble.
