Not because he didn’t enjoy the read.
Quite the opposite.
An underestimated author was old HH. Maybe the most.
The well-thumbed paperback that sat yawning beside his feet was a collection of shorts on one fantastic subject and
The pitfalls that framed inventing such a contraption.
The reader sees only the romance that would flower with said
No more dodgy air flights;
The sea could rage to it hearts content; and
The countryside would have its peace once again.
He could hop into her arms, taste the heat and her river of need, allow their separate rhythms to match for a short time, taste her foreign tea and then be back for the day’s regional news.
He stood and traipsed, with a certain difficulty to the conventional door that led only to his boring kitchen.
No lips or delicate skin awaited him, bent from the back and throbbing, as he limped to the sink and reached for the blue tap.
“Damn normal doors,” he groaned, as he turned the faucet.