I turn and watch him leave the bar with his three friends. His broad shoulders and muscular back look edible in that white t-shirt, not to mention the fa
ded tight denim jeans around his cute tight ass. He has that thing. You know the thing, some men have it and others don’t. Like an X-factor. That very same thing that I find ridiculously attractive in a man. Only one other man I know has it and we are so not talking about him. I’ve been trying to analyse it—it’s the domination thing. After twenty-five years I have finally worked out that I’m sexually attracted to dominant men … too bad I have only ever met two of the bastards. Both hot, both players, one rich, one poor. Both way too dangerous for my sanity. Nope, not going there again, grown out of bastard-player-lover syndrome. If only I could get my body to keep up with my brain.
“He’s so hot,” Bridget snaps.
“If you don’t tap that you’re an idiot,” Abbie slurs.
“Change the subject. Jesten is off limits,”I snap.
“Good, I might go home with him then,” Abbie smiles.
“Don’t you dare?” I narrow my eyes. “He’s on the bench.”
“Ha, I knew you liked him.” She laughs.
I roll my eyes. “Shut the hell up and buy me a drink, bitch.”
The day after is always hell—why do I do it to myself? I have to wash clothes and grocery shop …hungover. Again. It would be such a great society if we just popped a pill to eat and threw our clothes out after we wore them once, or better yet went naked. No grocery shopping, no cooking, no washing, no folding or ironing … the very bane of my existence. I hate housework with a passion. I wish I was one of those Martha Stewart types who gets off on it. I just don’t like it. I like my house clean but, boy, it shits me doing it every damn spare minute I have. Imagine having messy kids living with me. I shiver at the thought. I’m in my local grocery store, trudging up the aisles with my trolley and my guard is at the front drinking his coffee. The aroma of the deli is rolling my nauseated stomach. Who in the hell eats that vomit- smelling cheese? I rub my face and try to stop myself from dry-retching—this is totally shit. I’m not drinking again. I start to perspire as I fight the wave of nausea. Kill me now. I pull out my phone and text Abbie.
Call me an ambulance.
She immediately texts back.
Can’t. I’m in the mortuary. Dead.
An hour later I am at home unpacking my groceries when my phone rings. I got one less problem without you! I got one less problem without you! Rihanna’s ‘Diamonds’ is out and ‘Problem’ by Ariana Grande’s is in. The words to this song somehow ring true in my life … wonder why?
I used to cry when my phone would ring ‘Diamonds’ and now when I hear those words I smile.
“Hello.”
“Hi Tash.”
“Oh hi Mum.”
“Love, can you come with me to the hospital? Something is up with Gran.”
I frown and immediately stop what I am doing. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, she just rang me and said she needed to go to the hospital and could we take her.”
“Oh … ok.” I answer wide-eyed. “I’ll get over to Didge’s house and you pick me up from there.” I start to panic and run around frantically to try and find my keys in amongst the shopping bags on the bench. Why do I only lose my damn keys when I’m in a hurry? I quickly put away the meat and milk and head to the car.
Fifteen minutes later Bridget and I stand out the front of her house as we wait for Mum to pick us up.
“So then what did she say?” Bridget frowns.
I hunch my shoulders. “I don’t know. Just that. Gran needed to go to the hospital and she thought we should come.”
“Yes. But what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. For the tenth time!” I scream. Honestly I’m too sick for this shit.
“Calm down, you crazy bitch,” Bridget snaps.
“You know what, when we get to the hospital, book me in. I’m dying from alcohol poisoning and it’s your bloody fault. Stop making me drink so much!”
She laughs as she looks at me. “You do look like shit actually, come to think of it.”