Rhonda examined herself in the mirror and applied more red. Which perfume? Red Door’ll do it. She sprayed a few squirts on her neck and tits and faced her reflection again. She wasn’t bad. She wasn’t good, but she wasn’t bad. Least she wasn’t arrogant like that girl in her poetry class. Motivated and enthusiastic and so bloody pretty. And it’d be kinda bearable if she wasn’t so smart too. But she was. She’d only started writing a few months back and she’d already been published in lots’a different places. Rhonda’d been trying to write for decades. Rhonda got back at her by ignoring her poems and praising others whose work was shit. Teach her to be smug and pretty.
Maybe he’ll like more lippy.
She added another layer of Revlon and moved onto mascara. She didn’t have long lashes but she made do with what she had. Least she knew about books. You couldn’t fault her on that. Ask Rhonda about any book and she’ll have read it at least twice and probably met the author at a workshop. Well not met, just sat-in on a talk by them. Maybe she mighta said something to one of them once. Like hello or thanks or see ya. Usually Rhonda didn’t speak, she just listened to them talk about their writing processes and fantasised about one day writing something too.
Mascara was fine.
Now heels. Where were her favourite heels? Well not necessarily favourite, just her only pair. Red and high and they’d match her theme tonight. There they were. She was ready for him.
Five to.
She snaps a selfie and puts it on Facebook. ‘Date tonight #feelingnervous’. Seconds later her friend from Book Club, not the Monday night one, the Thursday afternoon one, replies. ‘Who’s the lucky man Rhon?’
Rhonda types back. ‘Russian. Need I say more?’ She turns on the TV and selects the fireplace theme she’d pre-installed. Music? Bit ‘a Chet Baker’ll do nice. Yep, mood’s right now.
7pm.
She strides toward the unopened brown paper package in the middle of the table. The number of stamps on it tells of its journey. Tears it open. Oh, champagne. She nearly forgot the bloody champagne. Her stilettos tap-tap across the hardwood floor. Those floors are French Oakwood, y’know.
Chandon’ll do it.
She grabs two flute glasses and the bottle, brings them to the table and pops the lid. She fills the left one real carefully and the right one even more so. Strikes a match and lights the Love Luck candle she bought from the hippie shop yesterday. She dims the lights. House looks moonlit. She’s sick with nerves.
Deep breath, Rhon.
She fondles the package. ‘White Nights and Other Stories’ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. She pulls it out slowly, sniffs it, then lays it down beside her. Raises both glasses, and clinks them together.
7:10.
Her nostrils flare.
She brings the book up to within an inch of her face, and starts licking up the front cover.
Maybe he’ll like more lippy.
She added another layer of Revlon and moved onto mascara. She didn’t have long lashes but she made do with what she had. Least she knew about books. You couldn’t fault her on that. Ask Rhonda about any book and she’ll have read it at least twice and probably met the author at a workshop. Well not met, just sat-in on a talk by them. Maybe she mighta said something to one of them once. Like hello or thanks or see ya. Usually Rhonda didn’t speak, she just listened to them talk about their writing processes and fantasised about one day writing something too.
Mascara was fine.
Now heels. Where were her favourite heels? Well not necessarily favourite, just her only pair. Red and high and they’d match her theme tonight. There they were. She was ready for him.
Five to.
She snaps a selfie and puts it on Facebook. ‘Date tonight #feelingnervous’. Seconds later her friend from Book Club, not the Monday night one, the Thursday afternoon one, replies. ‘Who’s the lucky man Rhon?’
Rhonda types back. ‘Russian. Need I say more?’ She turns on the TV and selects the fireplace theme she’d pre-installed. Music? Bit ‘a Chet Baker’ll do nice. Yep, mood’s right now.
7pm.
She strides toward the unopened brown paper package in the middle of the table. The number of stamps on it tells of its journey. Tears it open. Oh, champagne. She nearly forgot the bloody champagne. Her stilettos tap-tap across the hardwood floor. Those floors are French Oakwood, y’know.
Chandon’ll do it.
She grabs two flute glasses and the bottle, brings them to the table and pops the lid. She fills the left one real carefully and the right one even more so. Strikes a match and lights the Love Luck candle she bought from the hippie shop yesterday. She dims the lights. House looks moonlit. She’s sick with nerves.
Deep breath, Rhon.
She fondles the package. ‘White Nights and Other Stories’ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. She pulls it out slowly, sniffs it, then lays it down beside her. Raises both glasses, and clinks them together.
7:10.
Her nostrils flare.
She brings the book up to within an inch of her face, and starts licking up the front cover.
