She sat by the door waiting. He's late, she thought. Or did she start getting ready too early? It's so difficult to keep track of time. -- Look'd a head: Desire seems weird. -- It's only been over for 8 hours but the weekend seems a millennium away. It's always been like that. A week ago is a month ago, a month ago is six months ago, a year ago is a decade. -- She's been told she's good at it. By a few in fact. It's a compliment, she supposes, but not something she feels the need to brag about. Something to keep to yer self, she thought. In fact she never told anyone about it, as if it were one of her secrets. Often, when she sat alone, usually in the semi-dark, thinking about her secrets and who knew them, it would come up as if it belonged. As if it was meant to be with all those other things. The things she would tell no-one or very very few. -- Yesterday was a daze, nothing came of it. It was recovery. Recovery from the day before and the day before and the day before and all the mistakes after that day after that day and after that day. Could have got laid. Is that something to be sad about? This celibacy has begun to sting less and feel more and more appropriate. Fuck sex, I just want cuddles. -- She's till sitting by the door, waiting. He's most definitely late, most definitely most definitely.
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