All Bottled Up
There was a knock at my door. I didn’t appreciate it.
I pulled myself up off the couch, cursed quietly that I was just getting comfortable, and sauntered over to the door. The knocking continued in an urgent fashion.
I opened the door and saw a woman. A pretty woman. Long blond hair and a rather full bust. Her taste in fashion was expensive, but questionable.
“Greg, are you busy?” She asked.
I looked down at the tumbler in my hand, half-full of fine brandy. “Yes.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised. “I just. I wanted to talk about last night.”
I shrugged languidly. “What’s to talk about? I had fun, you had fun, fun was had by all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting my drink on, so-”
“You mean-” She sputtered. She seemed angry. “You mean last night meant nothing?”
I leaned against the door frame. “It meant enough that I’d be willing to do it again.”
“But not enough to let me in your apartment?”
I glanced back. There was room for two.
“Nope.” I grinned. “Sorry.”
She slapped me. I wondered who she was.