By Friday night I was at the end of my tether.
Under the auspices of an unpromising year, Weltschmerz, fatigue, malaise, enfeeblement, and a shedload of other emotions, that of disconsolateness mayhap surpassing the rest, had engulfed me like greased lightning.
“Do you fancy me?”
Had her heart thumped any louder or speedier, the neighbouring seagulls would have broken into a fervid dance to the tempo of her unabated febrility.
Naomi propped her dainty elbows atop the windowsill.
“Life is not a highway strewn with flowers,” crooned her angelic and mellifluous voice in profound despair and poignant sorrow.
“Rumour has it,” began she, with an air of practised coquetry, “that you are a stupendous judge by way of physiognomy decipherment.”
“Word,” he chimed and arranged his tie. “To be sure you are a strumpet.”