Chapter 1 - Mister what?
Genevieve
This has to be a joke. Or a dream.
Option one, joke. Bad one. Option two, dream? This could take a nice turn…
I’m thankful for my plumber. I’m sure I gave the man nightmares for years, poor, poor man. I was wallowing in grief, anger, and yes, self-pity. I hadn’t taken a shower nor brushed my teeth in three days, at least, when the door rang, and I opened it, ugly crying and dirty, for an unexpected and very bewildered plumber.
He finally was able to fix the sink in the bathroom, so there’s that, but I saw myself in the mirror when I lead him to the bane of my existence, the leaking, gurgling, throwing back, asshole sink, and I smelled myself when I pointed an arm up to show him the culprit. Dear lord…
Poor, poor man…
I sent an apologetic email, to inform him I would promptly arrange the payment of the bill he left behind, with a hefty tip for the inconvenience. Despite his older age, I’m not sure I didn’t traumatize the man for life.
And now, another man is at my doorstep. Although I’m still in the same wallowing mood, at least now I’m clean. I drag my sad ass every day to the shower, brush my teeth at least twice a day, comb my hair, and try to look my, well, not my best of course, but… At least decent enough, should another unexpected visit occur.
As it does now. This man assures me we have an appointment, and I would hate to call a stranger a liar in the first minute of our encounter, but I would sure remember making an appointment with a god. The dude has to be the poster child for gorgeous- sexy- fun-surfer boy. A head taller than me, his white tee-shirt leaving no doubt about the biceps, chest and abs on the man, long powerful legs. And yes, legs can be described as powerful. Don’t fight me on this, I’m the writer here. And stop interrupting, geez.
Insert tingly jingly light music, curtain of glitters and stars, and picture this again. A head taller than me, his upper body already described, long powerful legs, ah yes, that’s where we were, clad in loose light green chinos, and a head full of long, and I mean long, blond hair, braided, if you please.
French braided. Dear lord… Add piercing blue eyes, a tanned skin and a million watt smile, although said smile seems already to fade quickly.
I get it. I look like a joke. And I feel like one when I ask his name. “Mister…?”
“Right, I’m Mister Right.”
Okay, the jury is out, this is a bad joke. Fuck my life…
