He was gone.
God damnit. When did he leave? Did he even see my titillating exhibition? Oh my God, what if I looked like a total idiot up there, dancing my brains out for some guy who wasn’t even watching? No, I knew I didn’t look stupid – the applause still ringing in my ears confirmed that.
Ok, I’ve got to stretch my legs. Benches in airports aren’t meant to be occupied by girls waiting for mysterious and potentially non-existent boyfriends. As I turn to pick up my purse I feel someone approach me from behind. My legs stiffen and my hands numb. Shit, is this it? Is he finally here? I turn slowly, hands shaking, terrified of what I might see.
By the way, I know what you’re thinking: of course looks aren’t the most important thing to me – I’m not that shallow. But is it so bad to hope he might be at least remotely close to the gorgeous image I concocted in my head?
But it isn’t him. Of course not, that would be too easy. It’s a janitor, gesturing toward my empty paper coffee cup and asking if I’ve finished. I hand it to him with a grimace, wishing he really was my mystery man – he’s not bad looking. And hell, I’d take anyone right now just to know I didn’t dream this whole thing up! I pop over to the concourse cafe for another coffee, feeling a little better after I’ve flirted with the barista. It’s now 7pm. He did say the flight leaves at 8:35. I mean, my understanding has always been that it’s vitally important to be two hours early for any flight, but maybe he has one of those fancy security passes.
Or maybe he has a private jet! I imagine myself walking across the tarmac in the sights of hundreds of passengers, all wishing they were the one approaching the shiny miniature plane of a handsome billionaire. I laugh to myself. I’ve always had such an active imagination. Plan for the worst, Ellie: boils, bald spot, and a missing eye. Yeah, I’ll be ready for that.
Of course I know none of that is the case.
“How?” you ask? Well I’m not going to tell you that right now. It’ll ruin the rest of the story – and if he really does have a private jet, I’ve got another hour and half to kill!
Let’s get back to the club before you bombard me with any more questions.
Did I mention he wasn’t there? Well, he wasn’t, the bastard. My disappointment was palpable but palatable. The rest of the evening passed as usual, boring and lackluster, my momentary spark of excitement and mystery doused, and my professionalism stretching to take up the slack. I returned home that evening exhausted and morose. The problem with moments of elation is the striking emptiness left in their wake.
It was Friday night so it was near 3am when I turned the corner onto Ponderosa Ave and pulled into my driveway. The lights were out in the neighboring town homes, leaving the sidewalk calm and quiet. I stopped to sniff the sweet aroma of the poinsettias by the driveway on my way in as I always did. I unlocked the door and dragged myself lazily up the carpeted stairs, falling asleep just before my head hit the mattress.
That’s right, bitches, I live in the fucking burbs. You weren’t expecting that, were you? I told you I’d be the best in the business, and that means I make some damn good money – more than some of my judgmental neighbors.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you don’t judge me that way. You’re such a sweetheart. I wish I had neighbors so understanding. Of course, they all think I’m a bartender. I mean, come on, admit it: you wouldn’t let your kids play in the yard next door to a stripper. It’s practically akin to living next to a pedophile.
I feel this is an appropriate time for a well-placed career rant, don’t you? Too bad, here we go! I don’t like the assumptions people make about my career choices. But I’ve learned to accept them. There are some things in society you can’t change. So rather than fighting for something that will never happen, or crying about it behind closed doors, I play the game along with everyone else and just let the world be what it is.
And when it gets to be too much, that’s when I write. I write about unexpected heroes and conquering underdogs. It’s a bit cliché, but to mix it up, I like to give my characters unusual hurdles; ones that might be considered sinful or harrowing to the layman. My protagonists are murderers, prostitutes, and thieves. They do horrible things to supposedly “good” people. It makes me feel better. It reminds me the world isn’t always what it seems.
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Ellie’s trying to convince you to love her! But she’s STILL not giving in – here’s Chapter 4a