The Other Woman

What does the one in the apron know, that the one with the ring doesn’t?

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I mean, it’s so very nice of you to come, indeed.

Well, I’m glad you feel that way.

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These Walls Have Ears

We all go into those places, empty rooms, corners and dark, isolated places to talk about our ‘secrets’, empty our hearts out to reluctant friends or disinterested strangers, on drunken nights or excited mornings. Every single person has done that since the beginning of time; it’s like a law of nature. Some secrets big, others small; confessions that turn into gossip and then rumours. And every city, every 500 square metres or less, in the world, has one place like that, where every person has rushed into at some point or another to spew out some secret or another. The corner office, the smoking area of the club, the school basement, the university library and its empty room at the back, the bedroom, the bathroom! Strangely enough, humans being the most connected race of all, we each have our own share of secrets and that’s how it has always been. And the curators and treasurers of these secrets have been those places, those corners, rooms and dark alleys. The upstairs room at a house party. They’ve always been there for us, over generations – paint peeling and with dirt between the tiles maybe – but always there. What would it be to rip open those walls and discover the reams of confessions made in those rooms, over generations, after vodka shots, before pregnancy tests, during divorce settlements and other situations you can’t even imagine? What would the lives of those four walls be like?

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