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DEAR LUCAS (A LETTER TO AN OLD FRIEND REGARDING A FAVOUR I OWED HIM)

“Where do I start?” “Wherever you like.” So unhelpful. The only thing making me more uncomfortable than the stupid brown leather sofa was his irritating stare.He kept trying to make eye contact; that wasn’t going to happen. “I was bullied a lot a kid.” I answered pathetically; apologetically. Although this was true, it barely scratched the surface.But honestly, how are you supposed to open up to some random with the world’s worst toupee and squintiest eyes; in a room that smelt like mouldy tobacco.The painting on the wall was crooked by about half an inch. The painting was of a flower garden; it was pretty enough, but the colours almost exactly matched the wallpaper: a truly ancient-looking brownish pink.Ew. If I wasn’t already depressed this room would induce it.I’d been in here five minutes and all I could think about was leaving.I stared at the door.It was a dark cherry brown, glossy, new.It was nicely framed with fancy wood; I forget what the style is called.You were going to be pisse…

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