French Fries
“How long will it take to be ready?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Okay, I can hold on that long,” his wife nodded. “I’ll set the table and heat up the leftover meat from yesterday.”
Welcome to Sonja Blonde’s romantic blog, where you can read short emotional and sensual stories. Perfect for a few minutes of escape.
“How long will it take to be ready?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Okay, I can hold on that long,” his wife nodded. “I’ll set the table and heat up the leftover meat from yesterday.”
"Oh no..." Delia whispered barely audibly to herself when she spotted the young, handsome pharmacist. "Where did the lady go who was standing at this window just a moment ago?"
There are four dents in each of my palms. Again.
How many more nights will I sleep with clenched fists?
Once again, I was formatting Excel sheets in my dreams while Tibor kept calling every five minutes.
Like every Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of that lice-ridden bastard Szabolcs revving his motorbike under my window. That piece of crap does it every weekend, rattling away like he owns the street.
"I saw you on the bus yesterday," Barbi said as I sat down next to her at the desk. "You looked like a corpse. Just staring into nothing."
I felt a wave of shame hit me.
You know that moment when someone moves to a beautiful island, lives there for fifteen years, and suddenly forgets they were once new too?
“If he’s not latching properly, take your breast out of his mouth. Otherwise, he won’t learn. It’s especially important in the first days because of the colostrum.”
“Colostrum? What’s that?” The young new mom’s eyes widened.
"What a dress!" Judit exclaimed. "Where did you get it?"
She picked up the turquoise, short, muslin summer dress from her friend's bed, admiring the delicate bead-adorned straps.
Bianka barely perceptibly curled her lips.
Fifteen minutes before the class began, all the participants had arrived for the one-day gluten-free baking course. In the spacious, sunlit waiting room—made cozy by dazzling white walls and apple-green faux-leather sofas and armchairs—twelve women chatted excitedly, each with their acquaintances.
“I swear, Bori, you should do stand-up,” Tamara groaned, clutching her side, sore from laughter.
“I always tell her the same,” chimed in Era, her other best friend. “I don’t know anyone else with humor like hers.”