Hmm. Saturday. I never thought about that either.
I usually spend Christmas in a bar with some unsavory company.
I resent the idea of staying home in a big ass house with no one around. I didn’t think Ezra would be in town. Either way, he won’t spend Christmas with me. He’ll probably spend it with his girl. Who is not his girl. He’s pretty much like me in that regard. I have no idea if I’ll spend Christmas with Scarlett. We shouldn’t do that, though. It’s a special day, and we might put some pressure on ourselves by spending it together and then ruin what we have right now.
So, a bar will be for me.
“You want a cup of coffee?” she asks, and my eyes hover over her face.
She looks amazing. Different. Her hair is like a dark rose in bloom, with silk strands waving and some tips curling.
And her eyes look like Venetian blue glass.
Intense, sparkling, oversaturated.
I imagine her eyes glimmering in front of me, her head pressed against the pillow as I enter her.
A tense swelling happens in my pants.
I hope tonight’s show will be short. I can’t wait to bury myself in her again.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Okay. Give me one second.”
She spins around before vanishing out the door, and I take a seat at the table and drag my eyes around her house again.
It’s a pretty place. Small but cute.
What was that guy thinking? The one I almost tossed over the hedge?
What is wrong with these men? It bothers me when I see such a discrepancy between the women who picked them and how the men take them for granted.
Good thing I don’t have a daughter, or I’d constantly be on their backs.
You’re getting someone like her?
She’s tough, industrious, and good-looking, and all you do is fuck with her like she’s nothing?
Talking about being an ignorant, entitled little dick.
And blind.
Obviously blind.
She enters the room, and I shift in my seat to see her better. She wears a knitted beanie, scarf, and gloves, and a plush winter jacket.
She looks like a girl, not like a school teacher or a dancer. And I feel bad that I’m taking her to a fucking club where she’s supposed to pole dance instead of taking her to a tea house and having cookies and tea with her.
I rise to my feet.
“This is the last time you’re dancing for money,” I say resolutely, and her eyes go wide, her smile quivering.
She’s trying to come up with a retort or a comment, but she can’t find her words.
“Let’s go,” I say, showing her to the door like I’m the man of the house. “Do you need to take anything else with you?”
“Uh… Yes. My backpack.”
