One day he’s gorgeous. Brings me coffee in bed. Reads Raymond Chandler out loud while I drink my coffee. Says I’m beautiful when I look like a walnut with legs. And means it. Then the next minute he’s flirting with some underage bimbo and saying he’d like to move to Moscow.
If my book were a man, he’d be THAT man. A few weeks ago I’d given up on him for good — promised myself I’d find a nice friendly accountant and forget those perfect moments of transcendent bliss.
But just now, he’s adorable. Funny, clever, and attentive. Can’t put a foot wrong. I love him madly madly madly.
He’s a reformed character, my lovely handsome brilliant book. Though if he so much as mentions Moscow, he’s a dead man.