somtimes, i write RPF (and i don’t care if you don’t like). btw, sorry for my awful english :/
“You could stay here tonight… if you want.”, he asked with this famous smile that hides his eyes behind his dimples.
She had a talk show in NY today. David Letterman or someone else. Not her kind of humour but whatever. Promotion. Promotion. Promotion…
And so, she said yes. Even if the last time she was in the big apple, she ended up with a half-empty (or half-filled, following her disposition) bottle of tequila in her stomach. His apartment smelled, felt, sounded like him and she regretted her decision at the very first second she came in it.
She didn’t remember what exactly happened, but when she woke up the next day, on the couch with the empty ‘corpse’ of a Smirnoff lying on the floor, she stopped trying to remember. Thanks God, she still wore her clothes.
Slight footsteps obliged her to looked over her shoulders: him ; in underpants ; humming an unidentified indie song ; looking for milk in his fridge.
She wanted to disappear at this exact moment. But she didn’t move at all.