𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 was raised from the ground up knowing nothing but comparison and perfection.
She compared herself to her successful parents, supermodel sister, and glamorous friends. Instead of love, she harbored a raging jealousy for nea...
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S i m o n e
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I had one hour.
It took fifteen minutes to down six shots of straight liquor, the taste was still something too disgusting for me to handle and I cringed with each one.
It took another five minutes to find someone who would dance with me on the floor, and then five more minutes to convince him to go to a more secluded section of the club.
It took two minutes to get a private VIP club room, and another fifteen minutes to fuck him on the couch.
It took three minutes to disappear, losing him in the crowd as he tried frantically to get my number in slurred French.
It took five minutes of wandering around to come to the conclusion that Nicolas wasn't anywhere near and that he in fact vanished the second I stepped onto the dance floor.
And then another eight minutes of drunkenly stumbling around, looking for him; despite the fact I planned to ditch him.
It took thirty seconds to realize what I saw when I found him in the corner of the club, in one of the booths.
Then another sixty seconds of staring, trying to sort through my thoughts and next course of action.
It took only ten seconds later for Nicolas to catch me staring.
two seconds for him to freeze up, going still underneath the girl sitting on his lap.
eight seconds for him to begin pushing her off of him.
And it took only ten seconds for me to turn around and book it out of the club.
All in one hour.
Give or take a few seconds, things happen slower when you're drunk and miserable.
Even through the haze of alcohol confusing my brain I knew quite clearly what I was feeling.
Hurt.
The feeling was so loud and triumphant over everything else, it felt as if my heart was pounding so quickly against my ribs it was marking indents in the bones.
