This is the twenty-first and final chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.
“You don’t own that restaurant.”
Janet laughs. “Do you think I own everything? Just a few things.”
They’re walking back from dinner. The evening has gone well. They won’t run out of things to talk about, but he already feels comfortable when there’s silence. The goodness of fit unnerves him slightly. He has had little gapping, no involuntary anagramming. She has done no magic (that he has seen). It seems so… normal. Continue reading
Sesquiotica 