“Is this love real?” she asks.
Sitting on a bench near the other end of the room, her words are unmistakable, magnified by the reverence and strange acoustics of the museum. He turns from the glass case filled with the desiccated husks of seahorses to look at her. Her hair is down, her glasses bright. She’s wearing the coat he bought her last winter. It’s not quite winter yet but the evenings are getting cooler. It is evening now. At least, it must be. They’ve been in here for a hundred years already, it seems.
“Obviously,” he replies. “Duh. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
At the sound of his voice, she looks up. “Not you, silly.” She raises the paper cup to her mouth and sips. “Arabica. Instant pick-me-up.”
“I’m an instant pick-you-up.”
“You’re fast, I’ll give you that.”
With a lingering glance at the contents of…
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