When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the desk calendar sitting squarely on her study table. She realized that she had forgotten to turn a leaf. She smirked, as it reminded her of If Only. It would be fantastic to live yesterday over and over. "Especially if it meant waking up next to Paul Nicholls every single time," she chuckled. She stretched lazily and imagined for one moment that she was a cat. Then she wouldn't have deadlines to beat, exes to run into, and expectations to meet. She shivered deliciously at the idea, until she remembered that it would mean domestication, submission, and being locked up in exchange for a bowl of milk. Otherwise, she would be a stray, pawing mice and living off them by crushing their tiny, curious heads between her teeth. That grossed her out and ended further feline daydreams.
She shook her head as she raised herself from the bed. She liked to believe that the act allows her to clear her thoughts and be alluring at the same time. The luscious, black curtain of her hair caressed her nape and back before falling gloriously to her waist. Her head was heavy from very little sleep. She figured she had consumed too many cups of coffee with Trish the day before. She shared Trish's fondness for black coffee, among many other fixations. They both relish the sensation the scalding, bittersweet concoction made down their throats, leaving a distinct sourness in its trail. She and Trish once talked about the likeness of black coffee to romance. Bittersweet. Acid aftertaste. Addicting. There's nothing like a fresh, hot cup to quell the sourness of that last drop.
She sauntered sleepily to the kitchen and plugged in the coffee maker. The machine must be connected to her psyche, for no later had she switched on the power than her mind began wandering freely again. Edward. Matt. Richard. Their names flitted through her brain. “Christ. Had it always been like this for me?” she almost said it out loud in frustration. The coffee maker gurgled on, dripping hot liquid into the carafe—yellowish at first, and then it got darker and blacker. She stared intently into the carafe, as if she were a fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball in an attempt to tell the future—or in her case, to go further back into the past. No, it was not always like this. The gurgling and rippling was hypnotic.
She shook her head as she raised herself from the bed. She liked to believe that the act allows her to clear her thoughts and be alluring at the same time. The luscious, black curtain of her hair caressed her nape and back before falling gloriously to her waist. Her head was heavy from very little sleep. She figured she had consumed too many cups of coffee with Trish the day before. She shared Trish's fondness for black coffee, among many other fixations. They both relish the sensation the scalding, bittersweet concoction made down their throats, leaving a distinct sourness in its trail. She and Trish once talked about the likeness of black coffee to romance. Bittersweet. Acid aftertaste. Addicting. There's nothing like a fresh, hot cup to quell the sourness of that last drop.
She sauntered sleepily to the kitchen and plugged in the coffee maker. The machine must be connected to her psyche, for no later had she switched on the power than her mind began wandering freely again. Edward. Matt. Richard. Their names flitted through her brain. “Christ. Had it always been like this for me?” she almost said it out loud in frustration. The coffee maker gurgled on, dripping hot liquid into the carafe—yellowish at first, and then it got darker and blacker. She stared intently into the carafe, as if she were a fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball in an attempt to tell the future—or in her case, to go further back into the past. No, it was not always like this. The gurgling and rippling was hypnotic.
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