thoughts on a hangover.

She weighed her options for the day: she could get out of bed, she could shower, she could go across the street to the grocery and buy some food, she could go to the nail salon and get a pedicure, she could call Selim and hope he was in a good mood.  Or she could stay in bed, find some movies to watch on TV, splurge and order Chinese takeout or sushi.  It was almost like a holiday, this not-working.  The only issue was the not-money.

What still troubled her, she thought, as she pulled she sheets over her head to block out the sunlight, was that last niggling thought she’d had before falling asleep.  How she’d have been happy if Bruno had kissed her.  Again, she reminded herself.  She still remembered the moonless Capri night when they’d stood on the dock and he’d leaned into her, a kiss so genuine in its tenderness that it had shocked her, she’d never felt anything like it before.  She found herself squirming against the sheets at the memory.

And it would remain a memory, now.  She’d chosen her lot, and it was with Selim.  Now that Bruno knew what she really was, that she was no longer the quiet girl who read books about Leni Riefenstahl but the mendacious hypocrite who judged her friends to make herself feel better, she’d never taste that kiss again.

[to flashback to that kiss, click here.]