A rail-thin woman sits in the center if a twin-size bed and crosses her legs. Her sweater’s so long, the sleeves drop six inches past her fingertips. She pushes chin-length strands of hair behind her ears and clears her throat.
“My name’s Ophelia,” she sighs. “I guess I’m supposed to tell you I’m insecure, or whatever. I’m not. It’s just that Trace is … well, wonderful. But he’s a rock star, and a very popular one.” She raises her hands. “I know, I know, every woman’s dream right? Rich, famous, oh-my-gosh-good-in-bed. But we all know how men get that talent. Practice.” Ophelia scoffs.
“I mean, come on. There’s only one kind of man that says the ‘L’ word during casual sex.” She turns slightly to wipe at gleaming eyes before facing forward. “Okay, so I fell for it. But I took care of it. I’m not a complete idiot.”
She leans forward, eyebrows drawn together. She points a finger. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Danielle, I can see you!”
A Trace of Love, August 2011