It seemed like she was always late, and every time, I swear my heart stopped in my chest. Of course, it always worked out in the end. Of course, even if it didn’t, we would’ve made it work. Shit, that sounds terrible. What I meant is, we would’ve loved her.
This sounds like a great voice over piece from a film staring a gruff old private eye. Though it doesn't remind me of his work, I can imagine Charles Bukowski reading this. This narrator probably smoked a filterless cigarette and drank from a neat glass of scotch while saying this.
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