He
swaggered.
Brushed
off the cinders, righted his breeches, staggered towards me and smiled, the
second-hand stink of raw spirits announcing the currency the landlord’s fat
wanton had tendered. 'Ish a mishap’ he
slurred, mispronouncing. ‘Mishtake to
take sho much drink.’
Behind
him she screeched, skin scarlet-speckled where cinders had stuck. ‘A mistake to think you could take it! I’ve had more success converting churchmen
to cuckolds than you!’
My
lip curled. ’Only the blind and the
desperate – and churchmen are, by definition, both – whereas your concupiscent
spouse seeks other amours almost nightly, rather than lie twixt your gnarly
thighs!’
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