 | A while back, when I was going through a bit of a tough time, this guy I knew, Paul, bought himself a restaurant, and when it was still pretty new...  | |
 | I was no one. Or rather: I wasn’t anyone. I wasn't anyone when everyone was someone. We’re talking Manchester. 1977. Everyone was someone. | |
 | Our mugs of tea grow cold after she tells me ‘Cancer, Henry.’ I can only sit, for as long as she wants me there, and wonder what she’s thinking, while the rain spits and the waves slap... |
Pulp.net - Fiction
The Online Home of New Fiction
May 2009
