Didja miss me?
I didn't think so.
Well, the guys have backed off my bathroom, now that it's a veritable shrine to the froufrou gods. It's like being trapped inside a wedding cake. But it's MY wedding cake, and that's all that matters. I guess.
I love my guys, don't get me wrong. But I have this recurring fantasy where I have a secret apartment somewhere chic, with a great view. It's cozy, in a minimal sort of way, and very, very clean.
I make some excuse about something I know they won't want to come along for, and instead I slip off to my hideaway. It's orderly and quiet when I walk in. I put on some music ... classical if it's daytime, jazz if it's night. I settle into a deep, soft chair or a hot bath and read, completely uninterrupted, until I'm so mellow I could melt. Late at night, I'll make myself some salmon and asparagus, with good French bread and a nice white wine.
I get the bed all to myself. The sheets are soft, heavy white cotton and vaguely fragrant with lavender. I sleep without waking until dawn, when the spell is broken and it's time to go home.
Nobody knows about this place but me. Shhh. Don't tell.
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