photo by Matt Palmer via Unsplash
The front room stank of beer, the armpit smell of stale kebab meat. Gingerly, Sandy stepped over discarded food wrappers, knocking over a bottle that gurgled lager onto the rug.
A muffled cry from the crumpled duvet on the sofa told her Dave hadn’t made it to bed last night.
‘You’re a pig!’ Why did she still flat share with this loser?
‘Didn’t find it,’ he mumbled.
Dave always claimed his night’s picking up girls in clubs wasn’t selfish gratification, but a quest for the ‘spark’, an indefinable moment of connection that would tell him when he’d found his soul mate.
Sandy pulled back the duvet, revealing a mass of tangled brown hair, lids firmly shut over what she knew to be dazzling blue eyes.
‘You can’t even see in front of your face, you idiot.’ She let the duvet drop.