The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Aliva's husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in hand. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. “Holy shit!” Giggling and snickering was amplified by asbestos tiles and reverberated by metal desks.
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