God, what did I do to deserve this? Save me, I pray in my head. Please just let her leave. I just want this to be over, please just let her go.
And finally, the redhead acknowledges my existence.
“I’m going to a cocktail party at the Grand,” she says, emphasizing the name of the fancy venue.
“Have fun,” I tell her, wiping down the already pristine counter. I’m pretty anal when it comes to the cleanliness of the place. Something about cleaning is just therapeutic. Scrubbing away the grit and dirt and revealing something pure and whole is gratifying in a way I can’t explain.
“What are you up to tonight?” Ann-Marie asks randomly.
She never asks me about my plans so I can’t help being caught off guard.
“The usual,” I answer slowly. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”
She pauses to look at me closely and it seems like she wants to say something else. But her mouth snaps shut, and I’m thankful because I don’t think I could take another one of her insults tonight.
“Don’t wait up,” she mentions as an afterthought before breezing out and slamming the door.
Sighing, I walk into my room and strip down to nothing. In my full length mirror, I examine my plump curves and the peaks and valleys of my anatomy. My boobs are full and the pink nipples are distended and hard from the chill of the air. My hands land on my thick waist and my head tilts to take in the roundness of my belly below traveling lower. I bypass my neatly trimmed mound and instead focus on the swell of my hips and thighs.
I may not be a stick thin model like Ann-Marie. But sometimes when I’m not being too hard on myself I think my curves are sassy, and someone will appreciate them. Someday. Even if it feels like it’ll never happen.
Patience, Anna, the voice in my head speaks. Prince Charming is coming soon enough.
I snort. Yeah, right. There are no guys in white horses. More like my book boyfriends will be keeping me company again tonight.
Grabbing my robe, I head to the only bathroom in the apartment. After a long, steamy shower, my muscles have relaxed quite nicely, and I change into my favorite comfy pajamas. In the mirror above my dresser, I pull my dark red hair into a messy bun atop my head.
My full cheeks are flushed and blotchy from the long day, eyes decidedly dull.
Okay, the voice in my head says. So you’re not a model. But you know what? You have a nice smile, even if you’re a little tired right now. So take it easy, tomorrow is another day.
Because working as a secretary for the town’s top CPA firm is no easy feat, but somebody’s got to pay the bills.
Of course, I’d love nothing more than to leave the crappy desk job but the truth is that it’s not possible, not by a long shot. I’m paying all of our expenses, Ann-Marie doesn’t contribute, and who knows when I’d find another job? The economy sucks, and a paycheck is nothing to scorn.
So with my mug of tea in hand, I settle on the plush, comfy couch and retrieve my favorite romance novel from the side table.
Hey, a girl can dream, right?
I don’t get out much, but it sure is nice to live vicariously through the words an author etches on a page. No matter how temporary the escape.
The pages of this particular paperback are worn and tattered from the numerous times I’ve devoured the story.
Finding the dog-eared mark near the middle of the book, I sink lower into the couch cushion and pick up where I left off. Yep, this is me. This is me, Anna Jones, small-time secretary in a small-time town, finishing off another week with a book in hand and a mug of tea.
Nothing to report, nothing exciting, but it’s my life, and it’s not bad. I wish something were different for sure, but how? After all, I’m just me and it seems impossible to make a change. With my parents dead and my only sister a dependent, there aren’t many options. It’s not like Prince Charming’s beating down my door, looking for a kiss.
So with another sigh, I burrow into the couch and flip to my favorite chapter. Oh yeah, here it is, where Lucy meets her paramour. Paramour, what a funny word. Why don’t they just say “date” or “hot guy”? But these Scottish highland romances are always like this. The guys always wear kilts and have long hair, flowing with the wind. The girls are always tiny things, wearing long, elaborate ball gowns except when they’re in sheer, see-through nighties.
But none of that matters because the best part’s still coming. Because yeah, these guys always have huge dicks. For some reason, Scottish lairds are always about six five, with broad shoulders and monstrous cocks, and my insides begin to moisten, eyes traveling the words, cares forgotten. Oh yeah, this is good. This is yummy. This is where the heroine sighs, gasps, and then rides that stiff cock for the first time, screaming and cussing, crying out his name, something along the lines of “Donegal, Donegal!”