I’m not goingto think about it.
It’s probably just stress.
Stress of the divorce, delayed reaction to the breakup, finding out about the ring.
Along with a touch of summer stomach flu or food poisoning.
All very plausible.
Add in the use of condoms.
And the fact that I can’t be pregnant because the universe needs to recognise shit needs to be shared around—it’s time to pick on somebody else.
Oh, I am so fucking fucked.
The rest of the morning passes glacially slow. And while I so want to go running to the pharmacy, I also want to remain in the dark. Blissful ignorance and all that. Also, I have work to do, which is currently occupying my mind somewhat. Thankfully, Heather is busy too, updating our social media feeds with photographs she’d taken on Friday evening. Everyone looks to be having fun, girls smiling widely flanked by theLust Islandcrew. Couples smiling shyly at each other from across the table.
The feedback cards tell another story, however. And it’s this information I’m trying to collate.
Brent
Arrogantis the general consensus among the female attendees, with one or two outlying comments.
Nice eyes.
So hot!
Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
But0vercompensating for a pencil dickhas to be my favourite comment.
Alesha.
Should stick to cats.
She smells like cats.
Nice person. Would like to be friends and have cat playdates.
George.
Cor, what a honker. I wouldn’t mind that full of tequila.
Nice man. Shame about his face.
I’d sit on his face. I’m going to take that as a reference to his large nose rather than someone with a fetish for smothering.
Zoya.
Said she was pansexual. Didn’t like it when I asked her if she could take the whole thing or just the handle.
‘Oh, man. I’m done.’
‘That bad?’ Heather replies, looking up.
‘Worse. I’m not even sure how to categorise some of these answers.’ Sorting through some of these has added to my queasiness. I feel like I should’ve worn rubber gloves just to handle them. ‘We might have a few matches. Mostly for the same few people.
‘Which ones were they?’
