CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Harold put one feet on a wooden cabinet that wasn't more than two metres tall and tied his sneakers' shoelace. He dropped the leg, put the other on the same cabinet and repeated the same action as he'd done the first time. 

As he stood up with a sigh escaping his pink lips, he smartened out his shirt which was crisscrossed with diverse dyes, by tugging it downwards on its hem for the umpteenth time. That was when Wilkes came out of the bathroom with a white towel round his waist and shampoo and water matting down his long, jet black hair.

“Still meeting at the cafeteria at 12 PM, yeah?” Wilkes asked to ascertain what they'd arranged before he went into the bathroom. His abdominal muscle glistened as droplets of water skidded down his frame before being soaked by the towel.

“Yeah. Trisha will be there, too. I know you barely remember what she looks like but she helped you, still, and deserves to hear what I have to say. I got her num’er la