But he had been mistaken. She wasn’t as dozy as he had thought, and suddenly she turned around and took the bottle from him. It didn’t really matter since he hadn’t been intending to drink more. But that overbearing manner—her opinions about what he should and shouldn’t do—got to him. Who the fuck was she—a mere slip of a girl—to put him in his place, to mother a middle-aged man? Not least after what he had done for her?

He flipped. He really didn’t like that arrogant style, and she looked a little tempting there with her ample rear pointing straight at him. He crept up behind her and put his hands on her hips, kissing her on the neck. She was a little reluctant there and then, but she needed to know who was boss. He was still angry, and she smelled so good. She was warm and feminine and wonderful—he couldn’t help himself.

In his excitement, he pulled her down onto the floor. And not long after, when they had romped around for a bit, she capitulated and gave way to pleasure. Mutual pleasure. Because when they did it the second time she was completely relaxed and there wasn’t a shred of resistance. The friction there had been to begin with was nothing more than exciting foreplay.

Afterwards they spooned, and he nuzzled her neck and hair and caressed her gently. She quite simply liked it—he was pretty sure about that. Even if she wasn’t exactly standing in the door waving him off as he left.

19

Sandra

FINALLY, IT WAS OVER. She lay on her side while he stood up, so she could see him zip up his fly, button his trousers, and tighten his belt. The last thing he did before leaving was to lean over and kiss her on the mouth and both cheeks. Softly and gently, as if he was thanking her for a lovely time. As if she were his woman and he had to go to work.

As if he would soon be back.

She heard him turn on music in the car and rev the engine. Playful. Happy. She heard him finally drive off, leaving her alone in a silence broken only by the hum of the fridge going on and off close to her ear.

She lay there. She couldn’t bring herself to get up, even though there was a cold draught on the kitchen floor and she was half-naked. She would catch cold. She managed to think that but couldn’t bring herself to think about anything other than snotty noses, coughs, and sore throats.

Then she cried. Quietly, without moving, for a long time—without forming any particular reason in her mind. She curled up with her arms around herself.

She must have slept too. She came to because her mobile was ringing, but she was incapable of getting up—let alone speaking to anyone. She cried more—empty, meaningless tears that eventually petered out.

That was enough. She hauled herself up and fumbled in the dark for the clothes scattered across the floor. With small, cautious movements she pulled them on—pain making itself known in different places in time with the beating of her heart.