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I was in the lane way with the dogs on Thursday morning when I happened to glance onto a neighbour’s balcony and see a glass of red wine (I can only assume it had been left out overnight seeing as this was about 8.45am). From there, this little story emerged. Strange the things that can inspire us.



She woke to a half empty glass of red wine on her bedside table. Not quite half empty really, just a few sips left. A blurred trail of red lipstick on the rim, finger prints around the belly. She imagined her own body patterned with similar smears, tracks left by this pallid man twisted up in her sheets. The story of a night told in hand and lip prints.

She was getting too old for these dalliances. Her days were filled with work and self, her nights with random strangers and feverish embraces. She enjoyed it. She’d never known anything else. But still, everyone else was settling down. She felt the pressure to convert these one time play dates into something more lasting but it just never seemed like the right time. Or the right person, for that matter. They were fun but not ‘happily ever after material’. If that even existed.

There was a slight stir from the person currently sharing her bed. Gradual, bleary movements indicated he might soon be awake. She relished the stillness before the inevitable morning fumblings, awkward chat and dash for the shower. This life wasn’t all that bad; there was fun, passion, excitement, freedom. What more could you ask for?

“Love,” a little voice whispered. “Ah, fuck that,” she thought as she rolled over and tangled herself in her semi-sleeping stranger’s arms. “It’s over-rated anyways.”

Image credit: Someecards.com via Pinterest