considerably quieter than the other.
She wasn't a cat person, and the complex didn't allow dogs of a size that would make her consider a dog to be "real." Thus, she only had to move some clothes to make room to sit. She did, then thought better of it and went to the kitchen sink, under which she kept a bottle of bourbon. She rinsed a glass that looked clean enough anyway, then bent down, opened the cabinet door, took out the bottle and poured herself a stiff one.
A quick stop at the refrigerator garnered some ice cubes. With that, drink in hand she returned to her living room and sat down, kicking off her sneakers and putting her feet up on the glass-topped coffee table.
"What the hell have you gotten yourself into, girl?" she asked, rhetorically. "What kind of sentences do they give people who do what Wes is planning to do?"
She sipped at the bourbon, laid her head back, and stared at the ceiling.
The problem, Phillie told herself, is that I stuck am on a sliding scale. Right now, Wes is utterly attractive. Right now, as near as I can tell, I'm in love with him.
She shifted gears to think about that. In love with Wes? Let's see, pitter-pattering heart when we near to being together, even if I saw him just that morning? Check. Ache with emptiness when we're not together? Check. Perpetual horniness? Check. Dreams about raising children together? Check. Me pleasing him feels better than him pleasing me? Check. Think about him all the time, even to distraction? Check. Swallow rather than spit? That one's a no brainer. Of course.
Willing to go to jail for him? Harder . . . buuut . . . check.
Willing to go to jail for him over something like this? Let's put that one off for a minute.
Another sip of the bourbon. Another. Another. Jail? JAIL? Big long drink; glug-glug-glug.
Phillie got up again. This time she stopped at the refrigerator first, to get ice, before going to the sink. When she returned to the sofa she brought the bottle with her.
She was thinking much more clearly now, she was certain. Back to sliding scales. Sip. In three years the age of the men I'll find attractive is going to be about sixty. Sip. In eight years, when my biological time bomb clicks out, they'll be closer to seventy. Sip. And that's just impossible. I'll never have a baby if I wait that long. And I wanted THREE of them.
Sip. Sip. Sip. Glug-glug. Pour some more.
Not going to be a mommy if I'm shot, either. Sip. Sip, sip, sip.
The warm caramelly taste of the bourbon filled her mouth. Would prefer it was Wes. A pleasant glow had spread across her body. Prefer that was Wes, too. But SHOT?
Then again, it has been fun these past few days. Fun like the ER never is. Sip. And isn't a person entitled to at least one real adventure in life? Sip. And to have it surrounded by men like those Wes has collected? They would never let me be shot? Sip. What am I worried about?
Sip. Well there's still jail . . . the chance of jail. No matter, I already agree that Wes is generally worth jail. Worth jail for this, though? Well . . . this thing he's doing makes him happy. And maybe that's enough.
Phillie heard a key enter the lock of her apartment door. The bolt fell back with a clump. The door opened and in the doorway she saw Stauer. She nodded to herself, half drunkenly, then stood up and walked to meet him. One hand reached out and pulled him inside. She closed the door shut behind them.
"Bridges told me you were-"
"Shut up, Wesss," she slurred, turning the interior lock. She turned and put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him against the door. "Ah'm going with ya on this, so ya better get me fitted for armor. Meanwahls, we haven' ha' any tahm for this since your crew showed up . . . " Phillie's accent tended to revert to rural Texas when she'd had a few. Her hands fumbled at his belt as she began to sink. He thought she was falling and reached to hold her up. She shrugged his hands off and finished sinking to her knees just as the belt came
She wasn't a cat person, and the complex didn't allow dogs of a size that would make her consider a dog to be "real." Thus, she only had to move some clothes to make room to sit. She did, then thought better of it and went to the kitchen sink, under which she kept a bottle of bourbon. She rinsed a glass that looked clean enough anyway, then bent down, opened the cabinet door, took out the bottle and poured herself a stiff one.
A quick stop at the refrigerator garnered some ice cubes. With that, drink in hand she returned to her living room and sat down, kicking off her sneakers and putting her feet up on the glass-topped coffee table.
"What the hell have you gotten yourself into, girl?" she asked, rhetorically. "What kind of sentences do they give people who do what Wes is planning to do?"
She sipped at the bourbon, laid her head back, and stared at the ceiling.
The problem, Phillie told herself, is that I stuck am on a sliding scale. Right now, Wes is utterly attractive. Right now, as near as I can tell, I'm in love with him.
She shifted gears to think about that. In love with Wes? Let's see, pitter-pattering heart when we near to being together, even if I saw him just that morning? Check. Ache with emptiness when we're not together? Check. Perpetual horniness? Check. Dreams about raising children together? Check. Me pleasing him feels better than him pleasing me? Check. Think about him all the time, even to distraction? Check. Swallow rather than spit? That one's a no brainer. Of course.
Willing to go to jail for him? Harder . . . buuut . . . check.
Willing to go to jail for him over something like this? Let's put that one off for a minute.
Another sip of the bourbon. Another. Another. Jail? JAIL? Big long drink; glug-glug-glug.
Phillie got up again. This time she stopped at the refrigerator first, to get ice, before going to the sink. When she returned to the sofa she brought the bottle with her.
She was thinking much more clearly now, she was certain. Back to sliding scales. Sip. In three years the age of the men I'll find attractive is going to be about sixty. Sip. In eight years, when my biological time bomb clicks out, they'll be closer to seventy. Sip. And that's just impossible. I'll never have a baby if I wait that long. And I wanted THREE of them.
Sip. Sip. Sip. Glug-glug. Pour some more.
Not going to be a mommy if I'm shot, either. Sip. Sip, sip, sip.
The warm caramelly taste of the bourbon filled her mouth. Would prefer it was Wes. A pleasant glow had spread across her body. Prefer that was Wes, too. But SHOT?
Then again, it has been fun these past few days. Fun like the ER never is. Sip. And isn't a person entitled to at least one real adventure in life? Sip. And to have it surrounded by men like those Wes has collected? They would never let me be shot? Sip. What am I worried about?
Sip. Well there's still jail . . . the chance of jail. No matter, I already agree that Wes is generally worth jail. Worth jail for this, though? Well . . . this thing he's doing makes him happy. And maybe that's enough.
Phillie heard a key enter the lock of her apartment door. The bolt fell back with a clump. The door opened and in the doorway she saw Stauer. She nodded to herself, half drunkenly, then stood up and walked to meet him. One hand reached out and pulled him inside. She closed the door shut behind them.
"Bridges told me you were-"
"Shut up, Wesss," she slurred, turning the interior lock. She turned and put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him against the door. "Ah'm going with ya on this, so ya better get me fitted for armor. Meanwahls, we haven' ha' any tahm for this since your crew showed up . . . " Phillie's accent tended to revert to rural Texas when she'd had a few. Her hands fumbled at his belt as she began to sink. He thought she was falling and reached to hold her up. She shrugged his hands off and finished sinking to her knees just as the belt came
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