The Writer Observes

Many a times, Mama had commented on how she missed Ireland and the rains. I’d seen the ‘Emerald Island’ myself, and I can safely say I’d love to return someday.

Father found this house horribly depressing, and it’s the reason he left. He had made a huge fuss, telling me to go with him, but I had blatantly refused.

Besides, who was going to take care of Scooter? Scooter’s sitting on my lap right now, purring like an engine. I don’t know how a cat with such fur can survive in the heat. I hope he’s happy. He sure sounds happy.

I stroked Scooter’s soft head, and he pressed upwards, dimly realizing I was petting him.

Lazy thing. Asleep like a log.
Speaking of asleep…I think I’ll take the liberty to describe the person on the couch.

Now, looking closer, he has black hair. My, it’s pitch black. Obviously, I don’t know the color of his eyes. He hasn’t even opened them yet.

Do I want them to open?

Well, it’d be better than a dead body, right?

The sound of the telephone made me jump up abruptly.

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