Chapter eighteen

He felt better, he had to admit the soup was surprisingly effective. In no time, he was standing before his dressing mirror adjusting his burgundy tie stuck in a waistcoat underneath a double-breasted jacket, his eyes still drooled a little and contained barely conspicuous bags beneath them but it didn't matter since he already had a solution to that. His once dried and sandy throat was now manageably moist.

It was already ten in the morning, three hours late for work. Good thing he was his own boss. He wore his dark shades and directed himself out of home, but before doing so, he thought about rendering the kitchen a little visit.

He had no idea why his mind and legs led him there but he was sure his mouth will do things once in there. Perhaps apologize to her for acting like an asshole or to thank her for the phenomenal, and delicious soup she had made some time ago. But then again, was he capable of erupting any sign of gratitude to her even though he owed her so much. No. That