“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Its funny…” he said, fishing out the last of his cigarettes.
“What is?”
“People, who substitute love with pity, and without fail, mistake one for the other.”
The sharp ring from a lighter echoed. He sat in silence, observing the dusty plumes of nicotine he sent up in the air. She stirred and asked anew;
“Do you pity me?”
“Only on Mondays.” he said.
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