First Date

So far there have been eight…

The first was in a bar, a noisy, shouty, bar where we had to speak at the top of our voices to be heard. The place he caught my mouth in mid-sentence with a kiss and made my bones melt. Where we kissed for what seemed like hours in the middle of a pavement while shoppers banged yellow carrier bags against our legs and his breath, tinged with the beer, misted over my face.

19 February 2007

Right, that's it. She is me... the other woman. The woman wives and girlfriends hate and spit on, the woman I've bitched about countless times over a G&T in my local with my girls on a Friday night. If they knew I was her, they would publicly lynch me, no lie. And yet, I am enjoying the frisson of thrill and excitement that comes with doing something so scandalously wrong... and to top it all off, I'm surprised at the lack of guilt in my life. Surely I should be having sleepless nights, tossing and turning next to my boyfriend (yes, I have one, does that mean the blame will be halved? Didn't think so), being unable to meet his eyes? Instead, I'm merrily carrying on my way, like there's nothing going on. So I am a manipulative, cheating, scheming bitch... or am I?
Can the fact that my boyfriend hasn't slept with me in god knows how long act as an excuse? Surely that's cruelty, and if we were married, grounds for divorce? There has been no sex in suburbia... so now I've gone looking... and I've found.

Laters