Page 19 of Cloud Storm

He looks at me indignantly, as if he’d been kicked in his noble parts.

“I don’t take anything by force, Ariel,” he says just before I close the door in his handsome face.

I enter my apartment and rest my back against the wooden door, too worked up for my feet to take me to my room.

I have a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings ravaging my mind, nothing is clear, everything is scrambled.

Suddenly, I’m certain of two things.

The first is that I’m stupid.

The second is that Lancelot Hills was flirting with me.

The real question is why?

From: Arthur

To: California Girl

Date: September 26, 2019 01:14

Subject: RE: Confused

I don’t want you to feel bad, that’s not what this is about. Our relationship is something that never materialized, because you didn’t want it to, I might add. But that is a subject for another time.

Stop feeling guilty, you’re a beautiful woman and as such, you must live your life. How do I know that? Because I’ve seen the brightness of your soul and a light like that cannot be hidden for long.

I recognize that I’m jealous. I know I am. So much so that I want to go out and hit all the bastards that cross my path and maybe with some luck, I end up giving a right-in-the-kisser to the right one.

We are entering the unknown dimension; we have not brought a map and we’ve not been given a compass.

Do you think I don’t see you in the women I meet every day?

Don’t you think this is a sign?

The time has come to see and know, once and for all, if what we feel is real or a mere fantasy.

I’m sure of the answer, I just want you to react to me in the same way.

I want to be yours, I really want that.

A x

Chapter 6

Sunday, half past ten in the morning and I’m sleeping. At least I was, until someone comes up with the great idea of banging my door down.

Isn’t there a law against this kind of crime?

Yes, I think there’s one, it says that on Sundays no one should be disturbed before two in the afternoon, under penalty of being hit with a pan on the head, which is what I intend to give to anyone who is knocking with such insistence.

I look in my drawer for pajamas, a long gray tee with bold black letters that reads ‘fuck you’. It’s very appropriate for the occasion.

I toss my hair in a bun, wrapping it with a colorful ribbon and after a quick walk past the dresser and through the kitchen—to grab an iron pan—I will see who has come to spoil my morning, before he or she can break the door down.

I open the door wide, quite forcefully, I might add. To my surprise, Roselynn isn’t the lucky winner of the pan hit, nor is her husband. It’s him. The Suit.

Or, rather, Mr. Lancelot Hills. Today he comes, wearing dark jeans and a blue and white plaid shirt, and the way he looks...

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