say as I close my eyes and wait for his touch.
CHAPTER FIVE
STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED
My sunglasses make the inside of the elevator even darker on my ride down to the lobby, an hour after Des has gone.
I had to be sure he was long gone, so I could put my head back together best I could, without a drink. My hands are quaking, thanks to George's rampage. I reassure myself, as the elevator sinks past the floors, that this will be the last time I do any of that with Des, but it's a helluva lot easier to believe that lie when I chase it with a few Mojitos.
The sunglasses are all I've got, and not nearly enough, as the doors glide open and I'm standing face-to-face with Aidan. His eyes roll over me and he cocks his head.
Great. I'm not really armed for an extra shaming. I try to brush past him with a polite grin, since he's the last person I want to see right now, but, of course, he wants to talk.
"Nice shades," he says. "And a new outfit, isn't it?"
"Is it?" I say absently, as if I have no idea that the other is upstairs in my hamper, too stained to wear out in public.
"Your husband...he's an interesting character." Aidan smiles all good-natured-neighborishly.
"Yes, he is."
"Is he always like that to you?
"Like what?"
"An asshole."
I decide then and there that Aidan needs to remember what we are to each other and that I'm not the helpless princess waiting for his white-knighted ass to save me. He might be right on target--Des is a total asshole--but the deposits he just made are still rolled in my pocket and still slick between my legs. He's still my husband.
"We're neighbors, Aidan," I say with a wry smile. "How about we just keep it that way?"
He nods with a little frown. "Alright."
"Thanks," I say, whisking past him and out the lobby doors. I'm happy to be wearing the dark shades because, for some reason, my eyes are welling up with tears.
<<<<>>>>
I order the mirror and pick it up four excruciating days later. I haven't even bothered to leave my apartment, since I can't really see what I look like in the medicine cabinet. Down to the last of the Jim Beam, I was relieved when the store finally called to say the mirror was ready for pick up. I spend three hours getting myself ready and still step out of my apartment feeling like I'd rolled in mud.
It would've taken an extra three days to have it delivered, so I decided to pick it up myself, which turns out to be a monumental mistake.
The mirror is a bitch to drag home.
It's an even bigger bitch to drag through the lobby and into the elevator.
And it's almost a totally broken bitch when I lose my grip and it tips over in front of my door. Mrs. Lowt rushes out of her apartment, nearly stampeding me in the hallway.
"Lydia, what is going on out here? Why are you making so much noise?" She circles the enormous, rectangle box as if she's a bomb-sniffing dog. She drags her finger over the word stamped on the cardboard. "Mirror? What kind of mirror is this big? A ceiling mirror?" Her smile is almost hopeful. "Is that what you got here? Are you making one of those kinky bedrooms--with mirrors and chains and the poles for dancing?"
"No." I smile at her, a little disappointed to be kicking down her expectations of me. "This is just a regular, full-length mirror. It's the kind that stands in the corner."
She's not giving up that easy. "So you can see everything in the bed?"
"No, I just use it to see how I'm dressed," I say. Why I have to add it, I have no idea, but I do-- "My professional outfits."
"A professional," she says with a knowing nod. "Oh, Lydia. Why do you want to do that? And the men...the men you bring back here--at least they're good looking. I wouldn't charge them myself, but that's not good for business to tell them that, is it? Where do you find the handsome ones that pay?"
"Oh my God, Mrs. Lowt! I'm not a prostitute! Those are
CHAPTER FIVE
STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED
My sunglasses make the inside of the elevator even darker on my ride down to the lobby, an hour after Des has gone.
I had to be sure he was long gone, so I could put my head back together best I could, without a drink. My hands are quaking, thanks to George's rampage. I reassure myself, as the elevator sinks past the floors, that this will be the last time I do any of that with Des, but it's a helluva lot easier to believe that lie when I chase it with a few Mojitos.
The sunglasses are all I've got, and not nearly enough, as the doors glide open and I'm standing face-to-face with Aidan. His eyes roll over me and he cocks his head.
Great. I'm not really armed for an extra shaming. I try to brush past him with a polite grin, since he's the last person I want to see right now, but, of course, he wants to talk.
"Nice shades," he says. "And a new outfit, isn't it?"
"Is it?" I say absently, as if I have no idea that the other is upstairs in my hamper, too stained to wear out in public.
"Your husband...he's an interesting character." Aidan smiles all good-natured-neighborishly.
"Yes, he is."
"Is he always like that to you?
"Like what?"
"An asshole."
I decide then and there that Aidan needs to remember what we are to each other and that I'm not the helpless princess waiting for his white-knighted ass to save me. He might be right on target--Des is a total asshole--but the deposits he just made are still rolled in my pocket and still slick between my legs. He's still my husband.
"We're neighbors, Aidan," I say with a wry smile. "How about we just keep it that way?"
He nods with a little frown. "Alright."
"Thanks," I say, whisking past him and out the lobby doors. I'm happy to be wearing the dark shades because, for some reason, my eyes are welling up with tears.
<<<<>>>>
I order the mirror and pick it up four excruciating days later. I haven't even bothered to leave my apartment, since I can't really see what I look like in the medicine cabinet. Down to the last of the Jim Beam, I was relieved when the store finally called to say the mirror was ready for pick up. I spend three hours getting myself ready and still step out of my apartment feeling like I'd rolled in mud.
It would've taken an extra three days to have it delivered, so I decided to pick it up myself, which turns out to be a monumental mistake.
The mirror is a bitch to drag home.
It's an even bigger bitch to drag through the lobby and into the elevator.
And it's almost a totally broken bitch when I lose my grip and it tips over in front of my door. Mrs. Lowt rushes out of her apartment, nearly stampeding me in the hallway.
"Lydia, what is going on out here? Why are you making so much noise?" She circles the enormous, rectangle box as if she's a bomb-sniffing dog. She drags her finger over the word stamped on the cardboard. "Mirror? What kind of mirror is this big? A ceiling mirror?" Her smile is almost hopeful. "Is that what you got here? Are you making one of those kinky bedrooms--with mirrors and chains and the poles for dancing?"
"No." I smile at her, a little disappointed to be kicking down her expectations of me. "This is just a regular, full-length mirror. It's the kind that stands in the corner."
She's not giving up that easy. "So you can see everything in the bed?"
"No, I just use it to see how I'm dressed," I say. Why I have to add it, I have no idea, but I do-- "My professional outfits."
"A professional," she says with a knowing nod. "Oh, Lydia. Why do you want to do that? And the men...the men you bring back here--at least they're good looking. I wouldn't charge them myself, but that's not good for business to tell them that, is it? Where do you find the handsome ones that pay?"
"Oh my God, Mrs. Lowt! I'm not a prostitute! Those are
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