Emma clutched the sheets to cover her bosoms. She watched discreetly as Edgar grabbed his wallet and keys from the nightstand. Edgar glanced over to Emma; thinking she was still sleeping. He nodded and left the apartment. A soft click of the lock affirmed the door’s closing.
Taking her panties from the bedpost, Emma threw it into the half-full laundry basket. The thick curtains let blades of sunlight come into the darkened room. The clock showed 7.30am. She walked into the attached bathroom to relieve herself. As she flushed the toilet, washed her hands and took her toothbrush from the cup, she thought to herself: just another guy.
It has always been this way for Emma; she never has a real relationship with a guy, never wanted to. Going to a bar with her girlfriends, she would get a free drink from a guy who's interested in her, chatted for a bit and left for a night of passionate romping. If they went to the guy’s house, she’d be off first thing in the morning; vice versa if the guy went to her house. The guy wanted to get into her pants (or skirt, depending on the attire), and she wanted to get into his. No strings attached, hence there were no broken hearts.
Emma wasn’t originally like this. A string of unsuccessful relationships made her very cynical about the L word. She harbored such distrust for love relations, she even chuckled when a guy mentioned it to her. Her attitude to love was, to say the least, tepid. She had enough of it – giving love and getting none in return. There were no fights in her previous relationships, not because they were happy; the other side just didn’t bother enough to fight.
Emma spat out the toothpaste and rinsed her mouth. As she gargled her thoughts went to what she was going to wear that day: the striped tube top with lavender trench? Or a sundress made formal with a suede bolero and wide belt?
to be continued...
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