What We Can't Say
What We Can't Say The apartment smelled like old coffee and radiator heat and something that Mark stopped trying to identify three months ago. It was a studio — one room, a kitchenette that consisted of a hot plate and a mini-fridge that rattled when it tried to be a refrigerator, and a window that looked at the brick wall of the building across the alley. Mark Sullivan sat on a chair that had...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 3 Views 0 previzualizare