She was strong. Stronger than him, actually. Gentle, but strong. Had she felt sorry for a drunk and landed herself in all this? As for him, all these attempts at intimacy, the bashfulness and the brashness, the yearning in his noble breast, were nauseating. He suddenly felt angry. He needed to sober up, but what had he drunk? He was attached to her. Great! Attached. On a lead. Well, what if he was? He was lost without her. He did not want to do anything without her, not even breathe this air. But why? It made him almost hate her. Difficulty breathing? What on earth?! Can this be love? Well, if it was, perhaps he should tell her. Little miss, you are a peach, and I am your little apricot. I want to love you. But what was there to tell? To admit he seemed incapable of anything more? That he
