“So youdidn’twant to compare my arse to the boot of your car?”
“I don’t think your arse is anything like the boot of my car.”
She smiles.
“And I don’t think you’re…stupid.”
“But you do hate me.”
“Sometimes, I guess…”
“Well, I can accept that. You don’t have to like me.”
No, I shouldn’t like you, Christine.
“Was there anything else?”
“I think that’s it.”
“Thanks for…”
“Hey, honey, who’s at the door?”
A man walks up to her, a glass of wine in his hand.
“Who’s this?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“Oh, this is…er…” now it’s her turn to splutter.
No. Who’s he, and what the fuck is he doing with her? Why is he holding a glass of wine, as if he’s relaxed, happy – at home?
He wraps his arms around her. His hand slides down her back, as he pulls her towards him. He’s telling me, wordlessly,mate, back off, this is my woman.
“This is Ryan.”
“Mmm,” the bastard comments.
Did I really just call him a bastard?
“Do you want to come in, Ryan?” he asks, innocently.
Innocent my arse. He wants to let me in just to mark his territory.
I look at him, angry. He’s about as tall as me, with broad shoulders, huge hands, long fingers… I don’t even want to think about what he could do with those hands. He has light hair, and dark, menacing eyes. He’s wearing a shirt.
A shirt? Is he a fucking doctor?
For fuck’s sake.
“I’ve actually got somewhere to be.”
I don’t have anywhere to be. Apart from at home, getting drunk off anything I can find in the fridge.
“Maybe another time, then,” he adds.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, through gritted teeth.
“So…thanks for stopping by, Ryan.”
Christine goes back inside with him, and they close the door.
And I stay standing outside.
Story of my life.
I quickly get back into the car, locking myself inside and groping around desperately for my paper bag, hoping I won’t throw up in it instead.
