Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy
by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.
Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, 2010
Brandon has been harboring a secret librarian fantasy for many years, but Emily was hardly his idea of a hot librarian. She was the type of women who came a side-serving of Complication. So why couldn't he stay away from her?
It was almost time for last call. Brandon wiped the sodden rag over the counter and put the empty glass the girl had just put down into the crate under the bar with the other dirty glasses.
“One more?” he asked. She nodded and took her wallet from her purse. He handed her the scotch on the rocks; her sixth or seventh one for the evening; and wondered how she managed to keep her balance on the high barstool. Her eyes had that glazed look of somebody who had definitely had a few too many, but if he had not been the one to pour her drinks; all six or seven of them; he would not have guessed she was drunk.
“Thank you,” she said politely when she accepted her change and slipped half of it into the tip-jar, as she had been doing all evening. He kept an eye on her as he started straightening bottles on the shelf behind him, wondering about her story.
Brandon loved his job. He owned several bars and still spent an evening now and then behind the counter. After serving drinks for three years across the globe when he was fresh out of high school, he enjoyed the occasional trip down memory lane. It fascinated him to see how alike people were, no matter where they lived. Broken hearts healed just as slowly in Hawaii as they did in Australia, and flirting was a universal art that did not differ too much from one place to another. He loved watching the games, the intrigues, the emotions, as people relaxed around him. He’d seen it all; the break-ups and the make-ups, the hopeful souls scouring the bar for the love of their lives; or at least the lay of the night. He’d seen people drink to forget, or to try to keep memories alive. He’d seen them drink because there was nothing else to do, or because they couldn’t do anything else. He’d seen the lonely girls go home with the wrong men and knew they’d wake up the next morning with alcohol on their breath and regret in their hearts. He’d seen women play fast and loose, and the men who managed to escape their clutches. He’d seen the best and the worst of people, but he thought he’d never quite seen anything like the girl sitting there in a dull brown coat, finishing one drink after another without toppling over or falling into somebody’s lap on her way to the bathroom. She was fresh and new, and it intrigued him.
The bar was rather empty in comparison to most Friday nights. But to be fair, it was the middle of the month and there was a blizzard raging on outside. He was closing up earlier than usual to give the staff and the customers the chance to get home before it got worse. The neat lady; there was other way to describe her; was one of the diehards, but since she was hardly causing a scene, he didn’t ask her to leave just yet while they were cleaning up.
Finally they were done, and he had to ask her to leave. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses.
“Excuse me?” she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time.
He leaned closer and thought he caught a whiff of something clean and fresh under the ripe smell of alcohol and closed-up people that hung over the room.
“It’s closing time,” he repeated. “We’re going to lock up.”
“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly as her impaired brain tried to sort out his words. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I’ll just go then, won’t I?”
“Can I call you a cab?” he asked, because she still had not moved from her seat. He waved a hand at the two waiters and the other barman, indicating that he would lock up and they could go home.
She looked at him, her eyes still slightly unfocused.
“To take you home,” he explained. “You shouldn’t drive.”
“Did I come with a car?” she asked, bewildered. “I hope not. I don’t own a car. Did I steal one?”
He grinned. This was fun. Normally drunk people just annoyed him a bit, but this girl struck a chord somewhere in his chest he’d never known to exist.
“Not that I know of,” he said. “How did you get here?”
“I must have walked,” she said, puzzled. “From work. Fancy that.”
“What work do you do?” he asked as Rod, one of the waiters, closed the door behind the other staff members.
“I’m a libal; librali; a li bra rian,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself for managing the word. Fancy that indeed, he thought, his mind going into immediate overdrive at the mention of her career. Like many, many men, he harbored a secret Librarian Fantasy. Even the way she broke it up into syllables didn’t diminish the thoughts running though his head.
The job suited her perfectly, he thought. She was cut out for the silence and air of wisdom and propriety that hung around the books like dusty clouds. He imagined being scolded by her for being too loud and grinned.
“Where do you live?” he wanted to know. He would help her home, call her a cab, and forget about her. She was not the type of librarian he fantasized about; she had glasses, but they were the wrong kind, and even though her hair was scraped back out of her face, there was nothing sexy about it. She wasn't wearing nearly enough make-up and not at all the right kind of clothes, either. She was just a girl, hiding behind stacks of books. Her fingers were unadorned, and he guessed her to be single. She probably had four or five cats and a vibrator named Bob hidden in her nightstand that she rarely used because it made her feel guilty.
“Up the street, I think,” she said, pointing vaguely with her fingers. “That way. You have pretty eyes.”
He lifted an amused brow. ‘That way’ would take him to the kitchen and eventually, an alleyway behind the building.
“How about an address?” he asked. “To give to the cab-driver.”
He grabbed a paper napkin and a pen. She wrote slowly, carefully, her handwriting still managing to be neater than his illegible scrawl.
“You don’t live far from me,” he said, lying smoothly. “Just one block south, to be precise. Would you like a lift home?”
“Never get in the car with strangers,” she said firmly.
“A cab driver is also a stranger,” he pointed out.
“Not the same thing.”
“Nope. But on second thought, I’m not sure you’ll find a cab in this weather.”
“That’s right,” she said, smiling broadly for the first time. The expression transformed her face from plain to pretty. Her innocence amused and tickled him. “It’s snowing. Like a White Christmas.”
He couldn’t help it. He grinned; it was January. She wasn't just drunk, she was completely sloshed. But still amazingly stable and logical.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, coming around the bar to help her from the stool. This was not something he ever did. He owned the bars; how the patrons got home was their problem, not his. But he couldn’t just leave this girl to her own devices, not unless he wanted the next time he heard about her to be her name in an obituary. She’d probably fall asleep in the cold right outside his bar and die. It would cause all sorts of unwanted paperwork and police questions.
She didn’t even need his help standing up. The liquor, it seemed, had not affected her balance one bit. Still, he kept a hand on her back to steer her. He locked up behind them while she stood looking at him through her wide, trusting eyes.
“You’re really tall,” she said. “I wish I was taller.”
“You’re the perfect height,” he said. “See? My arm fits right round your shoulders. You’re like a portable armrest.”
She didn’t giggle at that, and he wondered of she’d heard him. It was a pretty lame joke, but in his experience, drunk people will laugh at anything.
“I wish I was hot,” she said. “Like you. But not like you. Like a girl. Then maybe I could have sex.”
He coughed, choking on his breath, the way some people trip over their own feet.
“What?” he asked when he finally had the air back in the right pipes.
“I wish I was prettier,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m not being pessimistic, really. I just; well, no use crying for the moon, is there?”
“You are pretty,” he said automatically. She sighed.
“I’m not. But thank you for pretending, anyway. Oh, my goodness, it’s cold.”
He had just opened the back door and yes, it was cold indeed. The wind was blowing sheets of snow into their faces and heaping it against the side of the building. He steered her with one hand in the direction of his car, which was parked under the staff-members-only roof.
He cranked up the heater and took the drive slowly and carefully. The cold was making her drowsy, and he could see her head drooping slightly. No doubt the drinks were finally taking effect.
“I take it you don’t drink often?” he said.
“Nope,” she said, pulling the edges of her rather ugly coat closer around her. “I’ve never been drunk before.”
Until tonight, he thought, but he waited for her to continue on her own. After a few seconds, she did.
“I’m sort of a virgin,” she said.” By choice. But it’s not my choice.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Technically I’m no longer one. But I’ve never been with a man, you know?”
Well, he certainly knew now. But his years as a barman had taught him when to listen and when to talk. So he kept quiet.
“Well, anyway, I always thought it was because I’m too shy. Men don’t like that, right?”
“Some do,” he said, because what else could he say?
“Liar,” she said fondly. “Nobody wants to be with somebody who’s ashamed of themselves. I know I wouldn’t like that in a man, so I can hardly expect any man to show interest in me. That’s why I went out tonight,” she added after a few seconds. “Too see if drinking helps me get loose. Turns out I’m even boring when I’m drunk.”
“You’re not boring,” he said firmly. “You just need to learn how to fake it. Everybody is secretly self-conscious. Some just hide it better that others. You need to find a way to pretend. If you can convince yourself, you know other people will believe it.”
“I don’t think I’d know how,” she said. “I’m no good at acting or pretending or lying. I can’t even lie to telephone sales people. “
“I’ll help you,” he said impulsively. “I’ll show you how to fake it.”
“Really?”
“Sure. When you’re sober. Anything I teach you now will be wasted.”
“Like me,” she sighed. “I’m wasted, and all I want to do is go to bed. That’s my building up there.’
“That’s a gas station,” he said with a grin.
“Oh.” She frowned. “Then it’s not my building, is it?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
They found her building eventually, tucked away between a tall, scary-looking block of flats and a three-story bridal boutique. He helped her out of the car and up the steps. It took her three times to key the right series of numbers into the keypad so the door would open. Finally, she recited them to him to read it in.
“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “For the lift, and the ear.”
He grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Emily,” she said.
Emily. It suited her perfectly, as if her parents had had a glimpse of her in the future when they named her. She looked like an Emily more than anybody else he’d ever met.
“I’m Brandon,” he said. “Can I pick you up tomorrow around noon for your first lesson?”
“Lesson?”
“In faking it.”
It occurred to him then that ‘faking it’ might refer to something else as well, but he always made damn sure a girl does not need to fake it when she’s with him. Not that he planned to have sex with her. This girl’s second name was Complication. It would be cruel to pluck her cherry and then be off on his merry way. She was not the type to come; and then go.
“Okay. Wanna come up?”
He considered saying no, but realized she might need help to get into her apartment. It seemed her brain had simply been behind on its reaction, and she was finally in the clumsy imbalance phase of drunkenness.
She might get hurt, or lost, or wind up asleep on a hallway chair somewhere.
“Sure,”’ he said.
It was three interesting flights of stairs. She only almost-fell seven times, even with his arm around her waist. She was still incessantly polite, apologizing profusely and telling him how pretty he was.
Yeah, because that’s what every guy secretly wants to be. Pretty.
He had to take her keys and unlock the door himself. She was toppling over and had to hold onto the wall with both hands to keep from introducing her ass to the ground. It was a good thing she was wearing sensible flats rather than sexy heels, and he had to be the first guy ever to have that particular thought.
“There we go,” he said when he finally got the door open. She would need to get a locksmith to take a look at the thing; the key had stuck a bit, as if the mechanism inside was rusty.
Her house surprised him. He had unconsciously expected it to be decorated like something from the Victorian Era; Chintz and flowers, frilly and stuffy. Chokingly girly. It wasn’t. Oh, it was undeniable a female place, but it was feminine rather than girlish. The door opened into the sitting room, which had a sage green couch with big white pillows and lampshades. The lavender curtains had been drawn against the cold air and what was probably a dreary scene outside. The art against the walls was lovely; no modern skyscrapers with red splashes to indicate blood and lust, or wriggling shapes than reminded him of female sex organs during ovulation.
A small little galley kitchen on the right showed no dirty dishes in the sink, and a gleaming espresso machine on the countertop next to an equally gleaming microwave.
He half-carried, half-dragged her to the only other door, guessing it to be the bedroom.
It was, and here was more proof of neat, uncluttered taste. The room was tiny, with built-in cupboards and barely enough space to walk around the bed to the bathroom on the other side.
“You gonna kiss me now?” she asked when he helped her onto the bed and slid a pillow under her head.
“Sure, thing, honey,” he said as he switched on the bedside lamp so he could turn off the harsh overhead fixture. “In a minute, okay? You just wait right there.”
He made sure she wasn’t too close to the edge to roll off and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. He found Advils in her bathroom cabinet, along with some make-up and an unopened packet of condoms. Pity stirred his heart. She was well and truly lonely, wasn't she? All cosseted in her small little apartment, hiding behind books and pretty paintings. So far he hadn’t seen any sign of a cat, but maybe the building didn’t allow pets.
He found a heater and turned it up. She was lying suspiciously still on her side, one arm flung out to the side. He tucked it into a more comfortable position. It was the desire to get her comfortable as much as curiosity that made him wait until she was deeply asleep, or, more likely, passed out, before he pulled her coat off to reveal her body.
She was small, and firm, and the only word he could think of to describe her was neat. She was utterly non-descript. She had tits, but they were just there, situated on her chest much in the way a nose is situated more or less in the middle of a face. He doubted he’d notice them if he saw her in the line at the grocery store other than for the obvious reason; they were female tits, and therefore bound to be noticed, even if they did not get a second look. They were completely average tits. He couldn’t see much, as she was wearing a creamy beige sweater that had clearly been bought with an eye on heat rather than hotness, and brown slacks that sat loose around her legs and revealed nothing about what her body looked like.
He shook his head as he slipped her shoes from her feet and considered doing her another favor and tossing them in the trash. They were butt-fuck-ugly. He hated sensible shoes on a woman.
He pulled the quilt over her body and since he had some experience with drunk people, found a plastic bucket in her kitchen to put next to her bed. She seemed to have missed the psychedelic-yawn, porcelain-god-worshipping part of the evening, but judging by the fact that her body seemed to have its own ideas of how to react to alcohol, he wasn't taking anything for granted. She would hate herself if she woke up in the morning, only to find she’d puked all over her pretty, plush white carpet. Who bought white carpets anyway? Wasn't that like a direct invite to Karma and Murphy and all those other sadistic creatures who makes people spill coffee just after they get dressed in a new shirt, or back their car into a lamp pole the first time they take it out for a drive?
He left a piece of paper with the instructions to drink the tablets and the water next to the glass and went back downstairs, only to tread back up when he couldn’t find his keys in his pocket.
It wasn’t in the living room either, nor anywhere else in her house that he could find. He went as far as opening her underwear drawer (he really was desperate, after all,) and was not too surprised that they weren’t there. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that the librarian lady had quite good taste in underwear. He didn’t touch any of the pretty lace and satin snips of fabric, but he could imagine them on her easily enough, and it made for a pretty image.
He finally located his keys; sitting in the ignition of his car, the doors firmly locked against him.
“Son of a bitch!” he said, slamming a frustrated hand onto the snow-covered roof. “Dammit!”
He took his phone from his pocket and tried to call a cab company to come get him and take him home to get his spare key, but just as he got an operator his phone made a cheerful beep just before the battery died. He considered throwing the piece of shit into the nearest heap of snow, but figured that would be counterproductive.
He was stuck, and he’d be dammed if he was going to wait for the sun to rise outside on the streets, looking at a locked car.
He trudged back upstairs, grateful that he hadn’t been able to lock the door behind him and made himself at least semi-comfortable on Emily’s couch, and closed his eyes. By any luck he would be awake and gone long before Miss Emily found the courage to leave her bed. And when he left, he would stay gone. She probably won’t remember the impulsive promise he had made to help her get confidence, so she won’t be upset when he doesn’t show up. He already regretted the invitation; Emily the librarian was not the type of girl he needed to spend time with. She was too shy; she said so herself; and she dressed atrociously. Except for her underwear, of course. She was plain, bordering on dowdy, a self-proclaimed virgin, (whatever she had meant by technically) and she had you’re-going-to-break-my-heart written all over her.
She was a librarian, for goodness sake. That was a species of women best suited to the porn industry, where they wore impractical high-heeled pumps and button down shirts with sexy glasses and tight skirts. If you put Emily in an outfit like that she would; well, she would look hot, to be honest. Almost any woman would look awesome, dressed like that. He imagined it easily, right down to the stern look she was giving him for putting a book in the wrong shelf.
“It belongs in the back,” she would say and motion for him to follow her so she could show him where to put it. He would wait for the right moment to pin her against the shelves and kiss the living daylights out of her while his hands explored her hot and eager curves. She would slide one leg around his waist and grind against him seductively;
Brandon came to his senses with a jolt, his hand around his cock. He groaned. This was ridiculous. He was sporting a hard-on for the most wood-uninspiring girl he’s ever met. She was shy and plain and, frankly, her life was a little pathetic. She had to be at least twenty-six and she’d never had sex? What was he even doing in her house, other than trying to beat one out?
He swore and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable and wishing he had a blanket.
This was what he got for playing the Good Samaritan.
Emily could feel the light all the way down to her queasy stomach, and it burned the whole way down.
“Oh,” she moaned and wondered, briefly, if a freight train or a passenger one had hit her. The question seemed important, somehow. Her head felt like the maze of a Pac-Man game. Something was running around inside there and eating bits of grey-matter. She tried to squint through the smallest of slits she could make with eyelids; straight into the light of her bedside lamp. She could hear her corneas go up in flames. She whimpered and turned her face into her pillow to hide from it. She regretted waking up with every fiber of her being. The longer she was awake, the more issues were brought under her attention by her irate body. Her mouth tasted like something she would gag at if she were to smell it on her way to wok. Her body was sore, and she was nauseous. The most pressing problem, however, was her bladder, which was screaming for attention. She eased her legs over the side of her bed carefully, surprised to find herself in her wrinkled angora sweater and slacks of the previous day. At least she’d had the sense to kick off her shoes the previous evening before she got in bed.
Her eyes fell on the bright red bucket sitting next to her bed. It was the one she used when she washed floors or windows, and it belonged in her kitchen on top of the cupboard that holds other cleaning supplies. What was it doing next to her bed? The next second she grabbed for it as her stomach revolted against the switch from horizontal to vertical. She was sick; violently and tear-inducingly sick. When it was over she sat there, sweating and just trying to get her breath. Another wave hit her and she was infinitely grateful for the bucket, though she still had no idea how it got there.
Finally it seemed to be over for real. She made her way cautiously to her bathroom and emptied the bucket in the toilet with a grimace. She would clean it later. No, she would throw it out. Nobody needed a reminder like that sitting in their kitchen.
She flushed the toilet before she unbuckled her slacks and sat down, relief spreading over her body like a flush. Eventually she realized she couldn’t hide on her toilet forever and she got up.
She just looked at herself in the mirror. Was that her? That rumpled, bleary-eyed stranger who’s make-up had smeared and whose hair; well, to be honest, the ruthless bun she’d tied her hair in had held pretty well. It still looked reasonably neat, in comparison to the rest of her. But her skin was white, her eyes red. There were pillow-creases on her check and she smelled like; No. There was no words to describe the odors wafting around her. But it was foul and she might need to burn her clothes.
She pulled it off, stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The next second she screamed when the icy water hit her skin and she realized too late that she should have waited a minute for the hot water to reach the pipes. It cleared her head instantly, however, and she forced herself to stand there while it warmed.
That’s when she heard her bathroom door swing open, and an unfamiliar voice say, “What the hell?”
Oh, dear heavens! There was a man in her apartment.
Brandon could see vague movements behind the translucent curtain; he truly hated those things; but nothing else. He’d woken up to the cheerful sounds of somebody throwing up and considered leaving before she emerged. But he would still be stranded until he could get home for his spare key, and he knew the lady would probably have a few questions regarding the previous evening. It seemed cruel now to leave her to her own speculations. And then she’d screamed and although he knew there was probably no crazy axe-murderer in her bathroom, he did feel some concern. Or, at the very least, the desire to be spectator to her humiliation. The uncharacteristic bout of pettiness was undoubtedly brought upon by the crick in his neck after spending the night on a couch that was too short for his frame. Why didn’t women invest in man-sized leather couches or lazy-boys with cup-holders?
“Who‘s there?” she asked, and he could hear the shiver in her voice. Was it fear or cold?
“Me,” he said, wanting to punish her; just a little; for the worst night of his life. Not that it was entirely her fault. He had decided to help her home all on his own, after all. But the punishment her couch had meted out had neutralized his part in this little clusterfuck. That, and the raging case of blue balls he was suffering from even now. Though, to be fair, there was no way in which he could hold her responsible for that.
“I,” she said.
“What?” Brandon asked, confused.
“You mean I. Not me. Grammatically speaking…”
“You’re giving me a grammar lesson?” he asked, astounded. “You’re naked in the shower and there’s a stranger outside who could, for all intent and purposes, have a chainsaw or an electric appliance, and you’re pointing out grammatical errors?”
There was a moment of silence, during which he could only hear the sound of running water.
“Do you have a chainsaw or an electric appliance?” she asked after a few seconds. Steam was rising and she sighed in pleasure. The sound shot straight downstairs. He winced.
“No,” he admitted.
“Well, then,” she said as if that explained everything. “I assume we met last night?”
“Sort of.”
“Did we…” There was trepidation in her voice now. “Did we have sex?”
He grinned. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity.
“Baby, you rocked my world,” he said. “Twice. Where’d you learn to do that thing with your tongue?”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you; Oh never mind, I’ll show you later. Mind if I join you?” He jiggled his belt, making it sound as if he was pulling off his pants.
“No!” she said quickly. “I’m naked!”
“That’s the idea,’ he said. “Naked and wet. Just the way I like you best. Just like last night. Man! You were wet.”
He thought he heard her whimper something about deities unknown.
“Want me to go make coffee instead?” he asked, taking pity on her.
“Yes,” she seized the opportunity. “Please. Coffee. Why don’t you take yours to go?”
She was kicking him out? After everything he’d done for her the previous evening?
“Now that’s no way to talk to your new husband,” he said reprovingly.
He could hear her shock in the very silence.
“My what?”
“Don’t you remember?” Oh, he was enjoying this.
“My what?”
“After we met up at the bar, we went to a judge I know and got a special license. He married us. He’s a good guy, Judge Henderson. Owed me a favor after I got rid of a little problem for him a year ago.”
“Please leave,” she begged, close to tears, if her voice was anything to go by.
“Now, honeybun, I told you last night the garbage disposal company I work for doesn’t work over weekends. Where would I go?”
She moaned, a pitiful sound that made him feel slightly guilty. There was a movement behind the curtain and then her head poked out. She was holding the curtain prudishly high to hide the rest of her.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” she pleaded.
He let his silence speak for itself, while he took her in. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that didn’t do much to distract from their beauty. Had he ever seen such big blue eyes outside the porcelain-doll industry? Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He was standing close enough that he could see the water clinging against her long lashes. Her nose was fine with the cutest tilt, and her skin, though still slightly sallow from the previous evening, was perfect and unblemished.
He was stunned. She was beautiful. How the hell had he missed that?
“This can’t be happening,” she said.
His thoughts exactly. He could not be noticing her beauty now. It was just his libido talking. He’d spent a restless evening tossing around coldly on her couch, getting images of her all mixed up with his librarian fantasies. That’s what this was. His cock was desperate to convince him he was attracted to her so he would make his move. And she would fall for it, no doubt about that. She was inexperienced and, by her own admission, desperate. If he turned on the charm, he would have her under him before the end of the day.
But he wasn't that kind of a guy. The guy who sleep with girls and leave them when they bore him. And bore him she inevitably would. She was too quiet, too shy, too damn librarian-ish to hold his attention for longer than it took him to come. He preferred women with fiery personalities and lots of experience in pleasuring her lover in bed. Emily would probably faint dead the first time she saw him naked. And try to be prim and proper, and not want him to go down on her. Sex with her would have to be after dark, a quick, awkward coupling under the covers. She wouldn’t want to do any of the things he liked; no blowjobs, no cunnilingus. Definitely no role-play. It would be utterly unfulfilling.
So why wouldn’t his cock stop trying to make happy-happy with her?
“Don’t worry,’ he said, finally annoyed by himself and his thoughts and feelings. “It’s not. I’ll go make coffee. I’ll even leave if you want me to.”
She looked at him, blinking those big eyes of hers.
“No,” she said. “Stay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She brushed her teeth and even her tongue for what felt like hours to no avail. The taste of her humiliation sat as if the enamel on her teeth had absorbed it. She felt as if she was chewing on moss as far as she went. She twisted the towel around her head and drank the Advils next to her bed. Bits and pieces of the previous evening was filtering down to her. She had been at the library and Mrs. Gunnings; bless her heart; had been talking about how Emily needed to find a nice young man to take care of her. Of how nice it was to go home and not spend the evening alone. Of how nice it was to go out and hold somebody’s hand in public. Of the lovely man who’d swept her daughter right of her feet and now they were married with a little baby and how happy they were; she’d talked and talked until Emily was so depressed with her own lonely little life that she decided to stop for a drink, rather than face her empty apartment. As she sat there, she kept thinking of ways to meet somebody; clearly, her job was no help; and the thought had somehow taken root that people met other people in bars. When they were drunk. So she’d ordered one drink after another, hoping she would magically become sexy and; and pretty and desirable. And somebody would magically notice her and fall magically in love with her and they would magically live happily ever after.
To be continued, by horn pixy.
