I was a messy reader. My books always had stray outlines or scribbled words, that I thought would better fit in instead. I would sit over the armchair, with a piece of gingerbread stuffed in my mouth; that the house sent, when ever they wanted to listen to what I had to say regarding the Bohemian estates.
I went on a few dates occasionally, to auction my tantrums. That is where I saw him. It felt like melting molybdenum. He sat across table with another woman who seemed to have gotten out of a glass of wine before diving into another. He didn't seem like much of a talker and glanced his way every so often towards my rather empty eyes.
My date felt sick after I snatched a few of his minutes tantalizing consortiums and he puked to the cacaphony of my next breath.
He walked towards me after my date left and he called a taxi for his'. We talked about molasses and parabellum and by midnight I was already heaving. We woke each other up the next morning. There was no way I was going to scribble on this book.
He left me at my doorway and promised he'd write to me soon. The next day I recieved a letter addressed to Amanda. The writer talked how he loved her rustic walls, the mole on her right thigh, the lemon cakes and the tea.
I stuffed my mouth with gingerbread, striked off Amanda and scribbled Audrey.