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About Kimberley

I’m sizin her up, thinkin, “She’s got game, this one.” Reminds me of *Boyhood* again—“You don’t pick who ya love,” or who ya pay, I guess. I’m happy as hell—finally scored, no more wanderin like a lost dog. But then she quotes me a price, and I’m like, “Fuck me, that’s steep!” Nearly choked on my own spit—surprised the shit outta me. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I growl, half-jokin, half-testin her. She don’t flinch—tough as nails, this chick.

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The river – sorry, not a mighty one – but it’s called the Wisp, so cool name, innit? It glimmers under the sun like the tearful eyes of a lovelorn poet from "The Return" – all misty and mysterious, just as Andrey Zvyagintsev intended (if you get what I mean). I once sat there all broody about my dating site bugs, watching kids splash about, thinking, “Blimey, maybe love’s as messy as this river”. And honestly, it usually is.

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