and squeezing those hard nipples that I’m salivating to suck…as she moans, “Oh, Louis, please don’t stop.”
I’m at my usual table eating my usual Nutella-filled chocolate croissant and sipping English breakfast tea with milk and two sugars. I look down at my favorite navy Prada suit paired with my nude colored Jimmy Choos. I smooth over my hair that, thanks to my useless alarm clock, I didn’t have time to deal with this morning; therefore, it’s pulled back. But I made it, I’m here and I wait. I wait almost every single day. I’ve only missed seeing them while I moved to London for a few years, but other than that—rain, snow, or shine—I’m always here.
The staff at Joanna’s restaurant are incredible; I have been coming here almost every day for seven years and they just leave me to my business. They don’t ask me what I want, they already know, they just nod their hello and bring me my usual. I sit in my customary tiny table by the window as I wait to see him leave his house. I have the perfect view of his brownstone from this angle. He sometimes looks up toward the corner restaurant before getting into his car, almost as if he senses me watching him.
I look down at my watch; it’s almost half past seven and he still hasn’t left his house. I finish my flaky brioche and wonder for the millionth time how they fucking get all that velvety smooth chocolate inside without marring the pastry, must be a syringe, I conclude as I devour the last bite and look out the window just in time to see his black car pull up. A minute later, he finally emerges, clean-shaven and hair still slightly damp. I inhale as if I’m standing right next to him. The three of them get into the back of his chauffeured SUV and drive off.
Time’s up! I think sadly to myself and whisper “See you tomorrow, JJ,” to no one in particular.
I finish my tea, collect my things, and leave. I love the suit he had on today, I think stupidly and smile to myself. Another day in the delusional make-believe world I live in, where I see off my beautiful love every morning as he heads to work. In my mind, I sometimes even fix his tie.
45 Days Later
“Here Comes The Rain Again” by The Eurythmics
It’s official; this is the worst week of my life. How can an educated, self-sufficient woman be this dumb? My stupid ex-husband, Gavin, has just evicted me and announced that he sold our Gramercy Park penthouse. Fuck! After all the things I’ve done for him, after everything we’ve been through, he has the gall to sell my place. I let him keep our flat in London because he promised me I could keep his place in the city. This marriage seemed perfect when he proposed it and is now slowly turning into a nightmare. We were supposed to fool everybody, not mislead each other. As usual, a good deal came along and his promises went out the goddamn window. I know the penthouse was legally his, but since I asked him for nothing from our worthless, bogus marriage or divorce, the prick could’ve at least let me keep the place I’ve been living and calling home for the past year. I’m on the verge of tears as I try to pack up all my shit.
I still haven’t spoken to Jeffery today. I should probably start figuring out a place to crash for tonight. It’s nice to come back home in the morning from breakfast to find a stranger standing in your house, telling you to pack your crap and go. I’m not moving back with my parents—that’s for sure! If I move in with my brother, Eddie’s wife, Michelle, will somehow inform the whole Upper East Side that her loser sister-in-law has been evicted by her loser ex-husband, and is now officially homeless. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why am I crying? Sara, stop fucking crying. Everything will be all right. But I know that’s just bullshit. There is no freaking way anything will ever be all right for me. Look at my pathetic life; people with half my problems require tons of drugs to survive…I’m beyond drugs. I should go straight into Bellevue and reserve a private suite in the psych ward.
I’m in a dark nook at my favorite corner bar. This place is not just a bar, it’s my little secret