"Perhaps historical fiction will win a few hearts."
"What do you mean?"
"Put a love story somewhere, anywhere."
"How about during the plague?"
"Which one?"
Discouraged and angry, Charles Dickens fixed himself a drink. Barely able to swallow, his throat raw from sickness, he somehow forced a brandy down and turned quickly around, leaning heavily on the liquor table.
"I'm alone, you know."
"We're all alone, Charles, keep a handle on yourself."
"Don't tell me what to do. You think you know me better than I do."
"I do."
"How dare you. How I hate you some times."
A hacking, deadly cough.
"Charles."
"Get out."
"I love you, Charles."
"Get out."
"I do, Charles. In my way. Forgive me. I suppose it's my feelings making me act this way."
Charles' handkerchief, now overwhelmed at so much coughing, was used up. He thought about his drawer with a spare in it, upstairs in his room, as he tried to ignore the other man's tears.

Prince - "Another Lonely Christmas (Cover by Dump)" | [Buy]