Dining Out

Dining out

Knuckles rapped on the door. Bother!

Jean had counted on being undisturbed. He smeared a wet-wipe across his face.

“Just a moment,” he called – but the door opened. How could he have forgotten to lock it?

“Wait!” he exclaimed, panic-stricken, but it was too late.

Michael stared at him, stared at the make-up and the mirror, stared at the dress on the bed.

“Bit of a surprise,” he said.

“But hardly unheard of.”

There was a pause.

“Can I take you to dinner?”


Jean reached for his shirt. Michael touched the dress.

“This would look nicer, don’t you think?”

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