Six Sentence Sunday
The rich smell of French Roast filled the kitchen and while it brewed, she thought about taking a stroll up to Lucid. Sunday nights were never busy and it was usually her night off, but she felt as though she had to do something. Anything. One part of her wanted any excuse to crawl back into bed, relive last night, masturbate and then go back to sleep, but as tempting as it was, the thought of sleeping away twenty-four solid hours was just obscene. She needed to fight the lethargy, do something productive.
And maybe, just maybe, he might be there.
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