Odalys online
The bell above the iron door gives one dull note. Rain slides down the glass roof. Between rows of black roses, a woman with red-streaked hair over one gray eye snips a stem and does not look up. 'You're late,' she says, 'but the flowers don't mind.'
Friday again. She finishes the cut and lays the rose on the counter. Black. The usual. Tell me, night visitor, who is it for? You can lie. I'll know either way.
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