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Her fingers gently smoothed out the divorce papers, before curling aroundthe padlocks. Her head held high, she went down stairs to face him. He was sitting there, the living room, watching old movies of their wedding,their previous anniversaries. He looked up, and she opened her hand to showhim the padlocks. He nodded, and made a vague hand motion, indicating thathe wanted her to begin fitting them. She tried one last time to get him to change his mind, to make him realisethat if she went through with her chastity, he'd no longer be able to makelove to her, that her warm and welcoming pussy, a pussy that he fitted so snuglyinto would forever be withheld from him. He nodded, agreeing with her, butthen chilled her by telling her that there were other ways in which they couldmake love, and that later that night, after the guests had gone they would. She swallowed heavily, realising what he meant. Not that she'd ever doneit Greek style, after all she wasn't that kind of girl. Well maybe. I crack the eggs agressively: ten eggs and not a shard in the bowl. I prepare the whole breakfast like Cobain performed ‘Unplugged,’ lazily and perfectly. I set up the table in front of my nameless friend. My friend the boom-box is now singing about Casey Jones, who better watch his speed and the girl is awake. I place her breakfast in front of her: a large portion of scrambled eggs with cheese, three slices of bacon and a glass of orange juice. ‘Do you want Tabasco?,’ I ask. ‘That’s okay,’ she says with the accent of a Southern lady. I sit on my bean bag and eat my own primitive feast, carefully not thinking about my dilemma. Nonetheless, my inner reptile is contemplating my move, which will have to be a castle into a highly compromised corner. She’s worn out her welcome at Neal’s house, has a Coke habit and no place to go. Having cleaned my plate, I observe that she has eaten all her bacon, half her eggs, has placed her plate on the sink and is smoking my pot on my two foot.
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