39. Hemingway
There's no better feeling that coming home after a rough day at work, nursing a glass of whiskey and maybe listen to your wife yap away about how her day went. Or at least I think that it must be nice. I have everything mentioned, a hectic job, a beautiful house, a built-in bar and a drop-dead gorgeous wife. Except, I don't get to have the above-mentioned experience. Because my house never became my home and our relationship of vows never became a marriage. I stare at the beautiful woman in front of me - my wife, Liliana Spencer. We are in our house, having our dinner. Sharp at seven, as usual. And we are having chicken soup and bread, as usual. The punctuality is her doing. The supper, mine. My late mother used to love the bread and broth from the restaurant above which we use
- Writer
