The Artist Flies to the Rescue
RAFE
B loody-fucking-hell.
You know, I’m a laid back clone. I don’t ask for a lot, don’t complain, and I don’t make anyone jump through hoops for me. Is it too goddamned much to ask that my primary mate and her bloody husband don’t commit a Romeo and Juliet randomly at 11 pm on a Thursday?
Seriously. This is what I deal with, people.
I know she’s rash and emotional and impulsive, and he’s no better. I know they’re in this phase of love that’s so huge that it’s transcending the sodding Universe, and the baby has made it that much bigger. But draining one another, knowing all three of them could die?
Christ in a fucking cartoon, I think they hit their heads in the shower or something.
My car’s flying down the road like I’m in the middle of a high-speed chase and I can’t get it to go fast enough. Jesus Christ, the things this woman makes me do. I’m liable to end up a smear on this windy, long-ass road up to their house.
You know, I was here when we brought the bed in and I don’t know if it’s the magick of being a rich bastard, but this place is like four bloody times the size of what was here only a month ago. It’s a mansion now. I park the car and sigh, trying to get myself under control. It won’t help to have this turn in a screaming match, and she’ll be amped up enough as it is.
Calm down. Take a breath.
Honestly, it’s the most excitement I’ve had since the whole ex-mates affair. That, my friends, is a bleeding tragedy.
I’ve got to get out more.