Page 27 of The Last Kiss

Oooh. I could do with being swallowed by the massive armchair I’m sitting in. I mean, all this cushioning you’d think it could happen.

“Nothing. You know. I just… needed some processing time. Ya know?”

Liv bites on her lower lip, face scrunching. I’m about to dial 999 because I think she’s having a stroke when she bursts out a laugh. She clutches her middle, bending over, heaving in breaths, rubbing at tears squeezing through the corners of her eyes.

“Does processing mean being naked and bumping uglies?”

“What! No!” My burning face is going to speak the truth. “What makes you say that?”

She motions for me to get up and join her by the mirror. We face one another in the reflection, one blonde, one brunette, shadows of one another in our features.

“You should have buttoned the shirt.” She motions to where the shoulder strap of my bra is exposed by the fall of the shirt’s neckline. Beneath the simple elastic is a purple, mouth shaped bruise.

My mouth drops into a wide ‘O’ shape as I push my hand against it, my body flushing with warmth.

Even though I’d do anything to keep that mark on my skin.

Another thing to tick off the list. Love bite. Twenty-nine and never had one before.

“I need a piece of paper. It’s time to write a bucket list.”

Then we both start to cry all over again.

7

French Red

It’s a sad state of life when every day starts with the winking of a cat’s anus in your face.

“Barney, ugh.” I push him off and pull the duvet over my head. In a weekend that lasted approximately five billion years, the cat alarm is not wanted right now.

The duvet does nothing. Barney looks at it as a morning workout. He’s stretching on his Lycra and pinging his headband.

I screw my eyes shut waiting for his next move. A paw slips under the edge of the purple cotton. The cat is Houdini, apart from he gets himself into tight spaces rather than out. Tap tap. The paw says—give me breakfast, bitch.

“I’m no bitch.” I stretch a toe out from the other end of the duvet, hoping to lure him away from my face.

Not a chance. He splurges down, weight on front paws, claws out, just an inch shy of my nipples. The air presses out of my lungs at the heft he has.

You could say it’s all fur. It’s not. It’s all fat covered in fur.

Shoving down the duvet, I scowl at him. Barney doesn’t understand sulking. He thinks it means headbutt and purr.

Headbutt and purr.

Headbutt and purr.

Being a cat must be so easy.

“It’s five, Barns.”

More purring. Another headbutt. “Ow! You just made me bite myself.”

He stands up, circles, winking his ass again, and then resettles closer to my face so he can rest a paw on my cheek.

“We’ve really got to try this diet food. You’re crushing my chest.”

More purring.