There was something else she didn’t realize—he, too, was up before his alarm.
In fact, he had stayed up all night. He occupied booth 9 at the Coffee-O, scribbling on a steno pad before a single candle, sorting emotional invoices, balancing ledgers of love. How does one decide what is a debit or a credit when the currency is affection? How does one forever close a time-honored account and devote all assets to a single, nascent nest egg?
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