On the stage, a fat man crying and singing about his tragic love. It was really impressive. Touching. Lucy had gleaming, wet eyes. Rupert looked at her.
In the kitchen they shared tea and sandwiches. Lucy sang quietly. Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva! Outside it was raining. As always. Inside it was cosy and smooth. They played chess and Lucy was defeated shamefully quickly. It was a quiet night. She was sitting on the armchair, little and soft, like the cat she didn't have yet, taking slow bites of biscuit. Another teapot was ready. Rupert was stretched over the sofa, playing the ukelele. He was looking at her.
Often, he smiled.
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