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Seaweed

He would have done things differently, perhaps. He pushed his spectacles back onto his nose and tightened the muscles in his back. On his left were three or four bananas, but he would eat none of those. A pain struck in his stomach, and he laid down on his bed, his head just missing the pillow. It would have to do. For most people, thinking things over solves everything. For him, only sleep and dreams offered solutions, and those were hardly sufficient.

He had called and messaged her only twice (each) in two days. Reasoning that once would imply a lack of interest, but thrice would be pushy, he settled for two messages and two phone calls. She did not answer and did not reply. A day later, she called from the beach, a head full of seaweed. She never mentioned the calls or the messages, she just asked him out for a film.

The film lasted ninety-three minutes and was interesting material. The cold beer afterwards had a bigger impact on both of them than they had expected. On the concrete street, she stumbled. “Hold me”, she said. He did not hold her.