“Goodbye,” Roland called after Debbie’s retreating figure. “Have a good lunch.”
Debbie did not acknowledge the farewell.
Roland shut the front door, trod lightly down the hallway, sat at the table, drew the bong to him and filled it. He lit the bong and sucked at it, watching the flame-front retreat down the bowl as his lungs filled. He knew that the glowing red disc would consume the whole bowl before his lungs filled, and when this happened he was pleased. He sat, the smoke in his lungs, satisfied. He blew the smoke out. It rasped across his throat and he coughed.
A cup of coffee, he thought. He rose, walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle, realising as he did so that he was hungry. He opened the door of the fridge.
Occupying the entire middle shelf of the fridge was a pavlova, baked marshmallow topped with meringue. Its uncut crust struggled to support an inch of whipped cream and grated peppermint chocolate.
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