Q: Before writing what I did and what he did please let me tell you I was just a teenagerand it all seemed new, so kindly don't judge me. Even if you want to..I am anonymous for the same reason. So this happened when I was 16 year old. I belong to a very humble and conservative family, from Indore. @I never had a lot of exposure to guys, until we went to attend a marriage of one of our wealthy relatives in Delhi.. it was one of the best times I had, as we had a group of 45 similar aged cousins, though most of them were very distant relatives. One of them was a 19 year old dude, and he was kind of cute. But I never thought I would have this urge to you know it was teenage and everything seemed new and exciting. So the second day, after having roamed all around Noida, we finally returned to our hotel and that guy accompanied me to my room. I asked him if he wants to come in as my parents were involved in the late night Sangeet rehearsals. He nodded gently and before I could know, we were cuddling and watching TV. I felt like a rebel, though it was the strangest and least expected thing I had done. Then he kissed me. Before I knew it I let him in my mouth and he kept rolling his tongue on mine. It was my first kiss, and I don't regret it. The warmth of his mouth, the wetness of his lips and his breath felt like the only thing I ever wanted. I was a teen so please not judge. Sadly before we could proceed, rest of our cousins called us to play Antakhshree with them. Never have we met since, but we often exchange messages on Facebook. It will be hard and awkward to attend his marriage. I love him. According to the above context, answer the following question. After the end of the story, the author probably: | OPTIONS:
- stops talking to her cousin
- continues talking to her cousin
- kisses him again
- not enough information
A: continues talking to her cousin

Q: Jason had been sitting alone at his table, staring at the tall, platinum blonde for an hour. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of kissing her full lips while his hands explored her lean, muscled body. Tonight he didn't need the whiskey to warm him up. But he kept drinking it anyway. She stepped away from the mike, sat her acoustic guitar on its stand, and walked down from the small stage. Jason beat all the other losers to the bar and sat down beside her. "You must be pretty thirsty after all that beautiful singing." How many times had she heard that line? But at age 33, she'd probably heard every pickup line known to man. "Yeah," she said, giving him a quick glance. He wasn't a bad looking guy. Probably a couple of inches shorter than her. At six-foot-two, she was accustomed to that. But a lot of men couldn't deal with her height. They liked to be the tall one in the relationship. Not that she'd had many relationships. Mostly one-nighters. Without her saying a word, the bartender sat a glass of ice down in front of her, and poured her a can of Diet Coke. "Thanks, Joe." She took a sip as he walked away. "I'm Jason." "Sondra," she said, looking straight ahead as she took another sip. "I really enjoyed your music--especially that last song. Did you write it yourself?" "Yeah." "Wow. It was sad, but moving. You've got talent." Here we go, she thought. And I suppose you're a talent agent or a record producer, or you've got a friend in the business. And you'd be more than happy to get me a record deal--assuming I'd be willing to go with you right now to some sleazy motel. "I'm sick of this business. In fact, you just heard my last performance. First thing Monday morning I'm going out to find me a real job. One that will pay the bills." According to the above context, answer the following question. How long has Sondra been probably performing for? | OPTIONS:
- a couple of decades
- several years
- not enough information
- a few days
A: a few days

Q: November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." According to the above context, answer the following question. what day did the events take place? | OPTIONS:
- Christmas day
- Sunday
- not enough information
- Thursday
A: Sunday