Chapter 2

Removing the clip my hair fell, in dark tangles, to my waist. Damp and heavy it hung there as I began to tackle the knots with a comb. I have never been the sort of woman to fuss with my hair. Day to day I leave it to run wild, just like the rest of me, a free flowing chocolate waterfall down my back. But after a shower, it has to submit to at least a comb and some conditioner.

Though I love it, it can become a right pain in the arss. A hair band lives constantly on my wrist, leaving a faint pink ring whenever I tie up my tresses in a moment of peak. I’ve been known to get it caught in zips, shut it in doors and it gets everywhere! But I don’t think I could live with short hair. With it flowing around my shoulders I feel like the goddess Venus all curves and long locks, but I bet Venus never had her lovers complaining about getting a mouthful of hair when trying to kiss her during passionate moments.

Sighing at the sudden influx of memories, I flung my comb back onto the dressing table; re-clipped my hair and made my way to my chest of drawers, avoiding the mess that always seems to clutter my floor.

Having moved out from home at the age of 18, I was always glad to be able to do my own washing. Admittedly I’ve never been great at working a washing machine, and still occasionally dye stuff pink and can never find any socks; but if it’s between that and watching my mother sigh at size of my knickers, I think I’ll go sockless.

Rummaging through my underwear drawer, I shimmied into the first pair of girl boxers I could find. They made what bum I have look curvaceous, despite mum’s sighing I had always lusted after a bigger bum. I felt it was dwarfed by my cleavage and craved the balance and curvaceous wobble a large rear would afford me. Not wanting a bra, I plodded heavy footed to my chest of drawers and pulled out my trusty pyjama bottoms, the heavy black material soft against my skin, and an old camisole small enough to afford me a flash of belly in the wardrobe mirror.

Now a day’s when I go home, Mother pretends to throw a blind eye to my shape and has long since stopped trying to buy me clothes. But I know behind the smile, she will always be thinking ‘What did I do wrong? It’s her father’s genes to blame’.

If only she could see I was happy, maybe she would stop worrying for five minutes. If she’s not eyeing me in worry and slight disdain, then she’s commenting on my love life. Not that it’s any of her business.

Slamming the wardrobe door shot, I decided food was in order. As always the kitchen was a bit of a tip, I had yet to stack the dish washer or scrub the dinner pot that still had remnants of spag-bol all over it. Thankfully a clean bowl and spoon were to be found. Soon I had an over flowing bowl in hand, cereal box in armpit and spoon in gob. Settling into my groove on the sofa I grabbed the TV remote and hit the power button.

The screen flickered into life; a couple from the latest mundane TV soap were lock lipped in a passionate embrace. Immediately a flashback engulfed me, hot and wet, tongue between lips, lips between teeth gently sucking it out in a devils kiss, and the faintest brush of stubble on a roaming tongue… Shaking my head I extracted the spoon from between my clenched teeth and changed the channel to one showing benign adverts.

Ok so it had been a while, but that did not mean I was incapable of enjoying myself. Gleefully I began to shovel mouthful after mouthful of chocolate hoops into my mouth as the titles began on my favourite cooking show. I chewed thoughtfully as I poured myself cereal to sop up the extra milk in the bowl. Gaining had been show to be by a man it was true, but my relationship with food far outdated my relationship with him. As I watched the chef on screen put the last layer of spun sugar on his croquembouche I found my mind trailing back to the memory of the day I had eaten all the icing off my grandmother’s birthday cake.