The living room is small and, to most tastes, merely functional. His armchair sits next to the open fire, which he must always keep at least simmering...with hot ashes. It heats the whole house. A stack of logs leans against one of four bookcases that form the bulk of the room’s furniture. No paintings on the rough-cast wall, and no photographs on the mantle. This house is just a receptacle for its owner. It is not owned by him, not in any emotional sense. It was here for two hundred years before. "Yea,she thinks it's dirty or some shit."Then he goes,"Sheila,when you're with your boyfriends,is that something you do?"I looked down to his lap and said very slowly,"Every fucking time."This time there was definitely movement."But I don't just drop to my knees and go at it.There's always kissing and cuddling first."He nodded his head,took a sip of his drink and pulled me towards himself and kissed me lightly."Jerome",I said,"that's not gonna get it." I know,I'm just warming up."With that he. More

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