Which was when, exactly? He always said “see you soon” and then he’d bugger off for weeks on end. He has a life of his own, I know, but when you’re so fucking addicted to the sound of his voice whispering your name as he comes, “soon” is not soon enough.
He said it again this morning, as I tried to figure out where my bra went during last night’s fuck-fest. I could feel the despair sinking to the pit of my belly like a big ugly emotional brick. I could stay at his flat for a while, he said, but he had to go off to do more stuff that he never quite specified the nature of.
He could be dangerous. Don’t you think I bloody realise that? I don’t even know if James is his real name, let alone what he does for a living. Judging from the size of his flat, he’s either a banker or a very well-paid assassin.
(Fuck. There’s the assassin thought again. Best not dwell on it.)
I watched him leave my life, yet again. And then I made coffee.