The Insomniac's Club
Insomnia sauntered nonchalantly into my bedroom, fully aware that the click-clacking her four-inch stilettos made as they struck my hardwood floors was sufficient to wake me. Her utter lack of consideration wasn’t due to the fact that she knew I was already wide awake; she just didn’t give a shit.
It was three o’clock in the morning.
She made herself cozy at the foot of my four poster stainless steel canopy bed, and sparked up a Lucky Strike. In the moonlight I couldn’t tell if the gossamer frock that clung for dear life to her every curve was maroon or scarlet. What I could discern was: it had spaghetti strings, no back, and beacoup décolletage. I asked her politely to leave; she flipped me the finger.
“Is that how it’s gonna be?” I asked, bleary eyed.
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