Then, a Woman Smelt the Same.

A year ago, he had almost run down the stairwell from the office to meet sabine at the entrance to marion square. She was wearing a white trousers, suit and sandals, sun glasses, a string of multicoloured beads around her neck. They crossed over to the national gallery to see the vermir she'd book tickets on line. He stood close, breathing in her chenell as they viewed the paintings. The woman could cook, even now, he had to say, that much for her. But part of him always resented the number of dirty dishes, having to rinse them all before stacking them in the dishwasher. Except for the roasting dish,