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She smiles.
“What did you say your name was?” he asks.
“What do you want it to be?”
He continues walking up the stairs and stops mid step to turn and look at her. He narrows his eyes and puts his chin to an angle.
“My bedroom is this way… Natasha.”
Chapter 2
“I’m telling you he’s playing up,” Bridget whines.
“Oh fuck, not this again,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair, my elbows resting on the table.
“Just dump him already.”
“No, I need proof.”
“Why?” I scoff. “I’m over hearing about this wanker, it’s doing my head in.” I take my phone from my bag and check my messages, trying to block her out.
“Listen here, you,” she points her teaspoon at me to accentuate her point. “You listen to all kinds of crazy shit at work and you’re going to damn well listen to mine.” I roll my eyes.
&
nbsp; “Yeah, but I get paid for that and my patients actually respect my opinion and besides you’re different. I can tell you what I think and I think you should dump the prick.”
“So you think he’s a prick now?”
“No, you think he’s a prick.”
“When did I say that?”
“When you said he was playing up on you.”
“Oh god, don’t start your shrink shit with me, you’re twisting my words.”
I roll my eyes. “Listen if you don’t want my opinion, don’t ask for it.”
“Fine, I won’t.”
“Good, suits me.”
“What are you two arguing about?” Abbie joins us from the rest room.
“We are not arguing,” I moan.
“Yes we are, Tash thinks Jeremy is a prick”
Abbie laughs and nods, “Who doesn’t? Jeremy is a prick.” We are at our favourite coffee shop, Oscar’s. We meet there a couple of times a week. Oscar’s is small and unassuming. Its walls are dark timber panelling with big green–glass pendant lights hanging low over oversized chocolate leather lounges that have coloured scatter cushions all over them. Big wooden coffee tables adorn the centre of each setting. The clientele are eclectic, from normal girls like us to doctors and lawyers, punk rockers to gorgeous gay men. Great coffee music always adds to the ambience and atmosphere, although on the last four or five times it hasn’t been as enjoyable as normal. Abbie (Bridget and my best friend) and I have had to endure countless hours of Jeremy crap.
Bridget rummages through her bag. “Abbie, I bought you something,” she pulls out a white paper bag.
Abbie frowns, “What is it?”
Bridget smiles. “It’s a bumper sticker for your car.” She pulls it out and we all burst out laughing. It reads:
If you’re going to ride my ass
