There are other women. Some 3.3 billion other women in fact. Many of these women, he considers friends. She hears about them, occasionally, as she paces the hallway outside his door.
The over-powering sense of herself being watched, and thus betrayed, kicks in. How could this attraction be so perfect as to replace all others? Other unrequited loves that seemed as though they'd never fade. They had, at this point, no origin. Substance vanishing into the space between her and him.
He said her name with no particular lilt. No lean toward her center. No concern for what some consider her loveliness.
She typed stories. She couldn't connect with them. If they amused, the elicited reaction was delivered. Sentimentality, drama, and love were lost. She dealt in the language of lust with the stories she presented.
1 comment:
AHHH!H!! I want more....how does it end, where does it start, tell me more!
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