I cooked dinner for him. Spaghetti Bolognese. I even went and bought goddamn butterscotch ice-cream. I took the clothes from the dryer, ironed them. I rearranged the bookcase into alphabetical order. I moved the coffee table so it was exactly a foot away from the edge of the rug. I actually measured the goddamn distance. I painstakingly waxed my snatch. I changed my clothes, brushed my hair, dabbed on his favourite perfume. I put on a Frank Sinatra album.Things hadn’t been good for over a week. Maybe the silence between us was what had prompted me to open the present. It wasn’t even about the present. It was about attention. I told myself this coldly. I was an attention whore, always had been, and always would be. And not brave enough to ask for the attention. I wasn’t the kid who put myself forward to be Mary in the Nativity play. I was the low-key nameless angel who purposefully tripped over the manger and got stared at disapprovingly.Attention. Even though it was bad, even though. However I believe Eddie Stover should have to take a bow as being in a class all by himself.The year was 1947 and thirty year old Eddie worked on the Sorrel Farm out near Fairview. Missus Sorrel was no prize beauty; let that be said up front. She was about thirty years old her own self and a little on the dumpy side. She was sloppy dressed in the best of times and usually very unkempt. But to Eddie she was beauty incarnate. When she walked out to the hen house to gather the eggs Eddie watched every movement her fat ass made as she waddled slowly across the yard. He imagined what it would be like to take that thin dress off her and just plain fuck her in the front yard. When she went out to the barn to give the rations of oats to the milk cows he wanted to take her and fuck her in the straw in the back of the barn.There was not two ways about it Eddie was deeply in love; but he wanted to be deep in Missus Sorrel even more. Of course the strong attraction Eddie felt toward her did not.
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