‘What’s the stud in the side of your head?’ she asked, reaching up and holding it lightly between the pad of her thumb and forefinger, her ivory skin brushing his temple and dishevelled tawny hair.

‘Wetware,’ he said, his dark colt-like eyes on her.

They were sitting at a table only a row back from the front of the bar, and outside cars and pedestrians still meandered past along the narrow road, the earthy smell of rain blowing in and mixing with the oak and a Miles Davis record. He was in his mid-twenties – restless, but quietly confident; she a few years older – poised and enigmatic.

‘I’ve never meet anyone with one before. I’ve seen……..




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