My hair has that soft, luxurious 'just washed' smell about it, and my skin smells faintly of sweet oranges. Why oranges? Because it's not vanilla and it's not floral. I hate floral, and the thick sticky sweet smell of vanilla reminds me too much of Chris (he loved that smell) and I don't like being reminded of obsessions past.

I'm lounging in an old wooden office chair, the kind you'd find in a black-and-white detective movie office. It squeaks when you move at all.

It badly needs oiling. Kind of like a few other things around here.

I took off my work pants earlier and am draped over the chair in just this little two-sizes-too-small dress, one of those 'hologram' ones with all the little white specks on the black background. Anyway, it's four sizes too small and just barely covers the curve of my ass.

It has a nice neckline, though.

My ring of black hemitite winks at me from my left ring finger. No boyfriend gave it to me. I don't remember where I got this one. It's a protection, lads, against you. A bit of armour, shall we say, against matrimony. A reminder.

My necklace, also hemitite, hangs tautly about my neck, that thick black heart on the leather cord. It's an old necklace, but I like it. It has no clasp in the back, which is just as well, because I'd always tie it closed anyway.

The lights are all off, save for the bare light bulb above the computer. I'm used to this, this scenerio. It happens every night.

I'm just waiting for a man in a tight red dress, six inch heels, and a wide brimmed hat to be outlined against my door frame.

"I've got a problem, honey, that I need someone busty and feminen like you to fix."

Ooo, baby.

.

Rosie.

Before&After