Between the Lines
I sat on the sofa and she sat in an armchair in front of me. A small table separated us. On it stood a jug of mate, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. In her hands were the pages of the short novel I’d finished five days ago and emailed to her, asking that she read it as soon as possible. As soon as she had, she’d invited me over to her house. It was a Monday night.