The evening had grown long and I premeditated the conversation I was actually having at this very moment. Unfortunately, tumbling spectacles aren't always part of the plan and a wrench was thrown into the works. All went awry. I had to save face by making an abrupt departure while simultaneously straightening my hanky in my coat pocket.
When I arrived home, I skipped the pleasant mumbles of the fish tank in the foyer and opted for a brief view of the city scape from the picture window with my scopes. They were an old pair of scopes, ones I had inherited from my grandfather upon his passing, scopes that he used to navigate our sailing adventures during my youngster years vacationing in the rugged waters of the Northeast. The aged elements lent me the vision of the warming embers that often emanate from profile of a city on cool evening, which in turn gave me inner warmth. During my introspective moment of perceived personal privacy, Gloria entered the room behind me, without warning, and hurled slivers of passion fruit at me, slapping and then sticking to the glass that I was previously so comfortably peering through. I whipped myself around to try and decipher just exactly what the problem was and I found it hard to discern whether or not it was I who was at fault for some unknown deed or if it was mere playfulness. Her expression was ambiguous.
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