The House of Carolina

As it turned out, Casa Carolina was in the cellar of a very old building in a part of town better known for its agreeable, reasonably-priced streetwalkers than for its coffee. It was a dank one room apartment divided into two by a sheet. One side functioned as a bedroom, the other as a living area/kitchen (complete with massive Iggy Pop poster, incidentally). I didn’t see a bathroom…

“How Tennessee Williams.” I showed off my intellect.

Carolina sighed inanely. “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” she drawled with the absolute worst Southern accent I’d ever heard.

Yup. Definitely in love.

It was only then that I noticed that the lighting in the room was … well, subpar might be one word. A set of four burning candles perched on the small bookshelf in the living room accounted for the dim lighting.

“Sort of dangerous to just leave candles burning like that, isn’t it?” I said.

“You haven’t seen dangerous.” She gave me a concrete-melter of a smile, then unbuttoned her shirt.

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