Stay Another Day
I want to give a big thanks to the editor of this story, a very clever and patient lady called Bella Mariposa. Where this reads fluently and clearly, it is down to her. The rubbish bits are all my own doing. I was thirty nine when I first stopped feeling young. I was sitting at a table in a pub watching a striking young woman I called Cat – a stranger until this day – walk to the bar to buy me a pint of Guinness. We had just played a game of pool and she had lost a wager for a drink. Cat, or...