A few people mentioned that it might be an idea to continue on with this story: Brushing her hair... so I wrote some more. I'm not sure of it though; any tips, ideas, or thoughts? This one is called, Throwing Him Out.

But things are changing with her; perhaps she is developing a sense of right and wrong; a moral conscience, so to speak. And so, this time, she throws him out of her bed, after showing him all the joys of her apartment; beginning and ending in her bedroom after a calorie filled takeaway meal on her balcony, laughing as they dropped food over the edge onto the road.

She throws him out; it is unprecedented, and it only occurs to her later that it may have been a mistake to see him that night in the first place. She wasn’t sure why she accepted him; they rarely go to her apartment, though he wishes they did. But it wouldn’t be so easy to forget about him if they were at hers; she doesn’t want to wake with him, eat with him, wash with him, because that would turn what they’re doing into dating. She doesn't date.

Somewhere between making the awkward phone call inviting him to hers, for the first time, and the furious but predictable sex they have in her boudoir as he calls it with a faux French accent, trying to romanticise the cheap date; she changes her mind.

She doesn’t need him here. She can't think she does. Her body tells her differently, but her mind disagrees and her mind is the stronger of the two and her mind wins the round. He’s leaving.

It’s a sweet revenge, a sweet comeback, remembering the times he's left her lying there, in his house, with only the coffee he makes, quite badly, for company.

She asks him to leave, to not come back, and to get away from her, from the room that still smells of lust and sex and sweat and a hundred other things including her perfume that she wears on special occasions.

She doesn’t want a lover. She dislikes the boyfriend. And she had always despised the fool.

She rips into him, with claws, suddenly formed. Weapons she didn’t know she had until she found the anger to yell. To scream. To make him want to leave! She cannot just hurt him – she is not heartless. But she tries to be, and acts as though her face is glass and would break with a change in expression. She is cool over the whole thing. Studying her nails as he asks why, looking unmoved as he hurried gathers his clothes.

She has already dressed, already showered, and so she sits on the end on the end of the bed in elegant clothes; her blue sweater and a black pencil skirt. Impersonal clothes, the kind that are worn to business meetings and formal addresses.

Not the kind of clothes to be worn on dates. Not the kind that are supposed to be pulled off hurriedly as one falls in the bedroom, pushing against the walls.

He never minded before; blinded by love, one might hint, if they were to think about it. He never minded her not loving him.

He never minded the sex; even if it wasn't what he really wanted, he enjoyed the relationship. But she was in control; she was the dominant, he was the submissive and that was that. He did love her though; maybe he would have married her. But not now. He’s being thrown out. The relationship is finished. For today, at least.

He dresses, quickly, and gathers his things together, until the eye of the woman who is numb to him. No matter that an hour ago she was screaming his name; now she is the stereotypical good girl; filing her nails on the end of her bed, in her house, with her cup of tea (she refused to get him one) on her bedside table.

He leaves. And heads to the pub down the road from the house, despite him not knowing where he is.

It’s a masculine skill, the ability to find a pub or bar within five minutes. He wonders briefly if he should be worried that he drinks so much; no matter, really, because he doesn’t plan to do much with his life.

The fool is at home here, and, in a small, foul, dingy room with many men smelling of sweat, gets drunk, on beer. He cannot handle his alcohol, and becomes a loud drunk, the one who tells the pub their life story in slurred words. It’s men like him who begin drunken fights. But tonight, he doesn’t. He confides his problems in the bar tender, the man next to him, and his beer. His lips taste salty, and his eyes are stingy, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t cry enough to know when it’s happening.

When the pub closes, he goes outside. Finds his car, and sleeps on the back seat. He’s sober enough to know he can’t drive, if that makes sense. He takes the blanket of the back seat, and lies there, until it’s light and he understands how to work a car again. He feels like shit, but he’s not sure why.

When he’s left, she’s glad, because she can be alone for the first time. She changes again, back into her pyjamas that don’t really fit but were a present from an old friend, and slips under the duvet. She lies there for the afternoon.

Until she feels it is late enough to drink. She sits in her living room, with dimmed lights. And drinks vodka. Until she passes out, which is a common occurrence once you’ve drunk half the bottle. She sleeps. And wakes, feeling extraordinarily like something went wrong the night before.

That night, she rings him, and everything is fine, and they have a meeting the night after, which starts and finishes, like most of their meetings, in somebody’s bed.