Let’s call this a practice run for nanowrimo. You all are now in charge of Clare and Damien. Tell me where you want this to go and I’ll abide. Differing opinions will go with first come, first write.
First off, I never thought I’d fall in like, lust, love (?) with someone named Damien. I thought it would be something sturdy like Jake or Matt or ummmm, not Rhett. (Was Rhett Butler the one and only? Has another man on earth ever been named Rhett? Where on earth did that name come from. Email: ClareMacKay@stuff.com with the answer.)
Mandy is ticked that I didn’t tell her I was in like, lust, love(?) with Damien. How was I supposed to know that he was the artist? She never told me his name. That’s pretty important, if you ask me. Names are, well, more important than just calling a person by their chosen line of work. Damien…rather than artist. Pfft.
Except for that one evening when he must have dunked his shirt in turpentine, he had never given me any indication that he was an artist. Well, except for the doodles that he made on his napkins that one night we were out. But, hey, how was I supposed to know? Sure, the image on his napkin was me, with really scary nuances, but still. I just figured he got extremely bored on stakeouts and had devoted all of that excess energy to drawing something more than stick figures. (Okay, maybe I am not the most observant person in the world. I’m a librarian. Books for me!)
He’s here. He’s living in a bungalow not even a mile away. My parents like him. That’s almost enough to send me screaming into the hills. They don’t seem to mind his tats or his motorcycle. My mom actually asked me if we’d had sex yet. I think I may have reacted a bit badly that she had asked me that. Do normal mothers ask their daughters these questions? Or am I just lucky?
“Let’s have a date,” Damien said.
A second date. We tried that once, I think. I am so confused.
I feel like I am bordering on mania. My body is so aware of him and yet my head says, hon, you are gonna get screwed. He’s moved here for me, or so he says. He’s even changed his job. Evidently he caught the bad guy who killed his partner.
Am I a bad prospective girlfriend because I didn’t know this a long time before now?
Friends, I am so torn. Damien seems to be everything I have ever wanted and because of that I think I just want to move to Iceland. I hear they have lovely warm springs and northern lights and ummm….maybe something else that I’ve forgotten about.
Updates coming. If you have any answers to my dilemma, please feel free to let me know. You won’t be alone. A lot of people seem to feel like they can tell me how to live my life. You won’t be alone in that.
Thanks. Clare. Kisses.