“Are you still a purely vanilla girl?”
“You think I’m really boring,” she said.
Her lips had already told him there was a secret side to her that was anything but boring, but he was determined he wasn’t going there.
He thought of the world he had lived in for four years, where God forbid anybody should ever be bored, and so they had become adept at manufacturing all the excitement money could buy. And become so addicted to it, they were prepared to do anything to keep a lifestyle they had not legitimately earned, were not legitimately entitled to.
He thought of the letters in his hand, letters from a young man who was probably beginning to yearn for all those things he had once called boring.
“Don’t,” he told Sophie sternly, moving by her, the letters in his hand, “say boring as if it’s a bad thing.”
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