She was decent about it. She didn't go after me.
Eight words, in the head of somebody who had stood in my kitchen four months earlier and talked about my waist.
That was worth eleven years of unpaid Sunday nights to me. Apparently. At thirty-six years old, in an office, with a pen in my hand.
And I did not work one second of that out until a cardboard box was opened on a table at that man's wedding.
And it goes further.
Abel did not do any of this for that wedding.
The wedding was four weeks old as an idea when he had already finished.
He started it in the January. Four months before anybody was invited anywhere.
He is a management accountant. He is extremely good at it, and he is not a man who does anything casually or quickly.
He spent four months of evenings on a company he has no connection to whatsoever. His own time, his own money for two of the searches.
