walker/runner thing. Some of them looked cute with their ponytails and pretentious little calorie counters on their wrists. Others just looked flat out sexy with their sheen of sweat on their collarbones and upper chest, their awesome bodies perfectly outlines through outfits that were nearly a size too small.
I fell into neither of those categories. I looked like a bored, average looking woman that was in no particular hurry. Plus, I had done a lot of walking and jogging after the divorce and I didn’t want people to associate my walking with some sort of depression. I knew I was over thinking everything, but dammit, I couldn't help it. That was just the way my brain worked.
The way I saw it that afternoon as I pulled my car into my garage at 5:08 was that driving allowed me to get home quicker. I wasted no time, kicking my shoes off in the living room and made my way to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, pulled out the white wine and poured a glass. I sipped hard on it as I looked across the wide open space of the house. A breakfast bar separated the kitchen from the living room. The high ceilings made it appear bigger—and feel emptier.
I grabbed the TV remote from the bar and flipped on the TV, clicking over to the input that allowed me to pull up the web browser. I went to favorites, pulled up Pandora, and was listening to Norah Jones ten seconds later. With the soothing music playing, I decided that I would skip what would likely be a small and hastily-thrown together dinner, and make myself work on my novel.
My novel was a private thing. No one knew I was writing one. It was a project three years in the making. I had never been the best writer, but a friend of mine had recommended it when was at my lowest point after the divorce. She also recommended that I drink when I write because it would lessen my inhibitions and I’d be more willing to write about things that were painful.
I masked my agony in the guise of fiction. Whether or not it was worth a damn, I wasn’t sure. But it was cathartic, it was fun and, deep down, I actually thought it was pretty good.
So I spent that afternoon writing. I sat at the small desk that I had tucked into the far corner of the living room, and started working. It was one of those empowering stories that I usually just glossed over in bookstores. Part of me wondered if I might actually summon up the nerve to send it to agencies and publishing houses. It seemed like some delusional fantasy, but I thought it might be worth a short anyway.
I wrote for two hours, stopping for one primary reasons. I couldn’t ignore the rumbling in my stomach any longer. Slightly tipsy (on my third glass of wine), I wandered into the kitchen and threw together a ham and cheese sandwich. I ate it while standing at the counter, looking to the laptop on my desk and mulling over the second reason I had stopped writing.
The next part was about one page away and I was facing my first sex scene ever. I was not an erotica writer and even writing about a simple kiss in an earlier chapter caused me to blush. The sex scene was going to be done tastefully and, if I could manage, maybe even artfully. But still… I hadn’t been with a man in that capacity in nearly four years. Writing about sex, I figured, was just going to depress me.
Get over yourself, I thought. If you want to get laid that bad, just head down to the Salty Dog, grab a spot at the bar, and start flirting.
As tempting as one night of raucous sex was, it also made me remember the few morning-afters I’d suffered through in college. I’d like to think I had more dignity that that these days. Besides… Sitka was a small town full of tongues that liked to wag.
My ham and cheese didn't distract me from the coming task, neither did the last bit of wine I greedily slurped down. My porn-bent train of thought lead me to the man that came into the store earlier in the day... Jack. He’d been
I fell into neither of those categories. I looked like a bored, average looking woman that was in no particular hurry. Plus, I had done a lot of walking and jogging after the divorce and I didn’t want people to associate my walking with some sort of depression. I knew I was over thinking everything, but dammit, I couldn't help it. That was just the way my brain worked.
The way I saw it that afternoon as I pulled my car into my garage at 5:08 was that driving allowed me to get home quicker. I wasted no time, kicking my shoes off in the living room and made my way to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, pulled out the white wine and poured a glass. I sipped hard on it as I looked across the wide open space of the house. A breakfast bar separated the kitchen from the living room. The high ceilings made it appear bigger—and feel emptier.
I grabbed the TV remote from the bar and flipped on the TV, clicking over to the input that allowed me to pull up the web browser. I went to favorites, pulled up Pandora, and was listening to Norah Jones ten seconds later. With the soothing music playing, I decided that I would skip what would likely be a small and hastily-thrown together dinner, and make myself work on my novel.
My novel was a private thing. No one knew I was writing one. It was a project three years in the making. I had never been the best writer, but a friend of mine had recommended it when was at my lowest point after the divorce. She also recommended that I drink when I write because it would lessen my inhibitions and I’d be more willing to write about things that were painful.
I masked my agony in the guise of fiction. Whether or not it was worth a damn, I wasn’t sure. But it was cathartic, it was fun and, deep down, I actually thought it was pretty good.
So I spent that afternoon writing. I sat at the small desk that I had tucked into the far corner of the living room, and started working. It was one of those empowering stories that I usually just glossed over in bookstores. Part of me wondered if I might actually summon up the nerve to send it to agencies and publishing houses. It seemed like some delusional fantasy, but I thought it might be worth a short anyway.
I wrote for two hours, stopping for one primary reasons. I couldn’t ignore the rumbling in my stomach any longer. Slightly tipsy (on my third glass of wine), I wandered into the kitchen and threw together a ham and cheese sandwich. I ate it while standing at the counter, looking to the laptop on my desk and mulling over the second reason I had stopped writing.
The next part was about one page away and I was facing my first sex scene ever. I was not an erotica writer and even writing about a simple kiss in an earlier chapter caused me to blush. The sex scene was going to be done tastefully and, if I could manage, maybe even artfully. But still… I hadn’t been with a man in that capacity in nearly four years. Writing about sex, I figured, was just going to depress me.
Get over yourself, I thought. If you want to get laid that bad, just head down to the Salty Dog, grab a spot at the bar, and start flirting.
As tempting as one night of raucous sex was, it also made me remember the few morning-afters I’d suffered through in college. I’d like to think I had more dignity that that these days. Besides… Sitka was a small town full of tongues that liked to wag.
My ham and cheese didn't distract me from the coming task, neither did the last bit of wine I greedily slurped down. My porn-bent train of thought lead me to the man that came into the store earlier in the day... Jack. He’d been
Similar Books
