Page 47 of Twisted Little Thing

I clear my throat. I never realized until now that we never talked about these things. The kind of small talk topic that would usually come up at the very beginning of a date. Then again, are we really dating? It's not like we ever had a proper date in that sense. Dinner, movie, late night walks – that sort of thing.

"Oh, I do work," I say, sounding a lot more defensive than I planned. "I have two jobs actually. One as a waitress at a restaurant –"

"What restaurant?" he wants to know.

"Doesn't matter," I say, partly to tease him by mimicking his reply to many of my questions, and partly because I don't want him to show up at my work place some day, either to intimidate me or free me by being my rich savior in shining armor. I think he would be capable of doing something like that.

"All right then," he says. "What's the other job?"

I hesitate for a moment. It might have been a bit too much to say that my few freelancing gigs are some kind of job. It is merely to bring in some extra cash.

"I, erm, write stuff," I vaguely reply. "For other people. Ghostwriting."

"Fiction or non-fiction?" he asks, not showing any kind of reaction, even though I feel as if I just stripped naked in front of him all over again. Not many people know that I freelance, not even Yuka.

"Both," I reply. "Whatever is needed and whatever pays well, actually. I just picked up a few projects here and there."

"Why?" he asks. "Why are you doing that? It doesn't sound like a reliable source of income."

I roll my eyes.

"Because it's not only about the money, believe it or not," I say. "I just like writing. And I am good at it. Copy-writing comes easy to me."

"So, you're one of those dreamy wanna-be writers?" he asks.

I frown. Exactly what I was afraid of. To be mocked again. Saying that you want to be a writer is probably the most cliché thing people can hear coming from a girl like me. It has been my life since I was twelve.

So I just stopped saying it at a certain point.

It's not true anyways. I am not a writer. And I don't want to be. Not in that sense. Writers are storytellers. Creative minds that come up with all kinds of plots, characters, and storylines that capture their readers’ minds.

But I am not a storyteller. I have nothing to tell and no desire to. I have never been the kind of person who takes her MacBook to a café and starts writing her next 500-page epic, because she is overflowing with ideas and stories she wants to tell to the world.

Writing just comes easy to me. It is something that I am good at and that I can do in a very efficient way. Taking over freelancing jobs for all kinds of ghostwriting projects was just a way for me to test the water. To see if I could actually be good at it on a professional level.

But I have only done a handful of jobs and earned a few hundred dollars, nothing significant.

"No," I reply. "No, I don't have a novel in me. No stories to tell. I feel like everything I could say has already been said before – and a lot better than I ever could."

"You might be right about that," he says matter-of-factly.

I free myself from his hug and turn around, frowning at him as the water swashes around us.

"Why would you say that?" I ask in an annoyed voice.

His words hurt me. I wouldn't admit it to him, but it felt like a stab in the heart. Does he really think that I am boring?

He just shrugs. "All the narrow-minded biases you threw at me when we first met – they weren't exactly creative or unheard of, you know. Maybe it's the same when you try to tell a story."

"I never tried," I object. "I just know that there is nothing there."

"Oh," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Now that is even worse."

"Not necessarily," I say. "I just don't want to waste my time on something that is fruitless."

He gives me that stern look I have come to know. His dominant face that is usually followed by an order of some sort.

And I react just as I always do – with silent anticipation. I wouldn't mind a third round. It would certainly be more fun than this uncomfortable conversation we are having right now.

"I want you to do something for me," he says, his voice strong and deep, allowing for no objections.

I love that voice, and I love that face. And my body is not shy at showing it. I tense up, looking at him with big, expectant eyes while my heart skips beats just at the thought of what might follow.

"Yes, Sir," I say to show my awareness of the turn we have taken.

I can see the hint of a smirk fleeting across his face in reaction to my words. So I am sensing this right. We will play again.

We are about to act out the specific dynamic that this relationship is defined by.

But not in the way I expected.

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