When he aimed for the vodka glass that night, he took my whiskey. He drank it anyway. He was plastered beyond belief, the sort of inebriation that makes one’s eyes water and the lashes cling together for support. He was clumsily toying with the ring I’d given him. I like to believe they left it with the ashes, but it’s probably not the case.
He met a client he had, the sort of corporate cunt a woman fucks and not the other way around. A reverse, realistic Christian Grey with less money and less dick. The second he saw me, he hated me. I was far from his ideal woman, far from bones and skin that smelled of expensive variations of vanilla. I drank more than him. He made a comment about it.
My he turned to the cunt, lashes clinging and all, ran a hair through his beautiful need-a-wash bed hair and grinned. I’m fucking her, he said. I’m fucking her and she’s my favourite. He must have sobered up some because his eyes were no longer watery, but fierce and loving. Right down her throat, he added.
I’d never felt more beautiful.