Fiction from NER 41.3 (2020)
I am not opposed to getting hurt, I told him, but only with good reason.
He was sitting on the same couch I was when I said this, but far enough away, because reasons abounded.
Evening then, the only light made by my little Target lamp. Both our sets of knees avoiding the first coffee table I have ever owned. Well, purchased with money. This data-point is only significant if you consider that, bloodwork-wise, I am now considered geriatric.
I understand, he said, and hope not to cause you any hurt. That is the last thing.