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.

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