As I head back into the bedroom from the shower, Mark's stories are all I can think about. I have my fair share of homophobic relations like Aunt Priscilla and my cousin Charity, but their bitchy comments and holier-than-thou attitude are nowhere near what Mark's been through. Maybe I'd talk him out of his misery, lighten his mood up with a few old photos of us together when he was still alive. Even though he'd be a tad offended by that, it'd serve as a suitable distraction for him to babble about something else than his ill-luck life.
I saunter over to my dressing table and skim over my old budget, which had all the items listed out boldly with matching, outrageous prices. Hmm. Perhaps Reece had a point. I'd strike off that lime perfume and go for soft orange instead, and you'd agree wit
