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The man leans over and plants one hand on the bed beside the blonde’s head. The other hand he wraps around her throat. “…getting along so far? How do you like the apartment?”
But the thing people don’t realize is that the past is a living, breathing entity that exists apart from our wishes or best intentions. It’s not gone, and it’s certainly not invisible. Its fingerprints are smeared all over every moment of the present, its weight drags on every second of the future, its consequences echo down every hallway of our lives. We can no more rid ourselves of the past than we could stop the earth from spinning.
Today I don’t find the sound of their lovemaking arousing, either. It’s simply another morning sound, like a garbage truck rumbling down an alleyway or a rooster crowing at the dawn. It’s background noise, meaningless and pleasant.
We’ll be perfect. Perfect strangers, unencumbered by all the bullshit that poisons desire.
In Europe, women are considered sexy at all ages. For that matter, in all shapes and sizes, too. Beauty and desirability have nothing to do with the number on your birth certificate or scale. The United States of Advertising has made everybody insecure about their looks.”
“How did we not get any better ideas after buddy-reading Fifty Shades? That was practically a sex manual.”
“Your face is red.”
“Wait, let me guess. My breasts are like cantaloupes.” “I was going to say honeydew melons.”
My past and all its baggage.
I'm sure we have a lot to learn with you
“Do you…are you…contagious?”
Wtf
“Do you have an STD?”
“I just…I can’t do small talk anymore. I can’t do fake. I don’t have the energy it takes to flirt and pretend to be interested in all the shallow, superficial shit I have to wade through before I actually get to know someone. Before I can tell if she’s worth my time. Because that’s…”
Life’s too short to mince words. Our existence is measured in minutes. Seconds. Heartbeats. Time is the most valuable commodity we have, because it can never be replenished. Once it’s gone…it’s gone forever. And so are we.”
“So how do I compare to the boyfriend pillow?” I huff out a small laugh. Even when he’s mad at me, he’s still angling for compliments. “Meh. You’ll do.”
“It’s not erotica. It’s a story about two strangers falling in love.” She snorts. “Falling in love and screwing like rabbits. Have you counted the number of sex scenes in what you’ve sent me so far? By the end of the book, the poor hero’s penis will be worn down to a nub!”
Chris says, “I told the building manager I was your husband and that I was here to surprise you for your birthday. He let me in.”
“For once in your life, Christopher, please listen to me.” I say it through clenched teeth while a carousel of images plays in my head of all the times he dismissed me to do whatever the hell he wanted. All the times I asked him for something, only to be ignored.
as I prefer to call it—pest control.
I never took a trip to Paris. That trip was all inside my head.
“Your husband is coming to visit you tonight.” My eyes snap open. I stare at Edmond in horror. “Husband?”
He says warily, “Yes. Christopher. Do you remember him?” Oh my God. I’m still married to Chris.
