Page 8 of Silver Fox Grump

Suddenly, I’m itchy. It’s a Saturday night, and I’m on my sofa thinking about my boss, who is also my dad’s best friend. Talk about pathetic.

Yes, he’s attractive, and yes, having him support me against my dad made me unfairly susceptible to his brand of brooding charm. A silver fox, he has grey at his temples and blue eyes that are almost inhuman. He has dark stubble across his square jaw, and a pronounced Adam’s apple just above his crisp white shirt collars.

Admittedly, he’s the grumpiest man alive. He has a wicked sense of humour though, and he strokes the stray ginger tomcat who hangs out in the Morden Company building.

Handsome, powerful, kind to animals, and murders the men who disrespect women.

Whereas I am a wannabe cat lady, not even owning a real cat myself, and I can’t go out at night because my dad would kill anyone who I spent time with, and I’m not mean enough to do that to Trish in accounts. Besides, she’s stopped inviting me for evenings with the other girls who work for Morden because I always say no.

I consider browsing the rescue kittens listings.

Or making some cupcakes.

Maybe I need a new book? Everything is solved by a new book… except this hole of loneliness in my chest.

I am a sad, sad case, and I have to shake this up. But while technically I’m an independent adult, my dad is a mafia boss, and I’m not tempted to find out what he’ll do if I break his rules.

Okay. Enough.

I put my book aside and stand. I am all alone in my apartment, so I will have a solo party. I’ve seen movies. I know how this is done.

First, I turn on music. Something upbeat and fun. I strip off my fluffy hoody, then shuck off my yoga pants to reveal my white cotton boy shorts and the little blue vest top.

Shimmying over to the fridge, I slide on the smooth floor. There’s one bottle of wine in the otherwise nutritionally empty cold box. I’m not saying I live off cereal, but I guess I live off cereal.

Thankfully it’s a screw-top—not by accident—and I wiggle my bottom in time to the music as I pour myself a glass.

I am too boring. I need to loosen up. I take a sip of wine and dance, letting the music flow through me.

I admit, I close my eyes, raise my arms and dance as sexily as I can, thinking how it would feel if Mr Blackwood was watching.

This is fantasy. It’s delicious. I can almost feel his eyes on me. I wiggle my bottom. It would be better if it were real. If Mr Blackwood were watching and I was a girl men were interested in. Specifically, my boss was interested in.

Sipping more wine, I boogie around the kitchen. This is fun!

The music switches to a new song and I hum. I don’t know all the words, but I don’t need to.

I dance through my little apartment. Past my bedroom, and into the lounge, and on a whim, I skip onto the sofa, singing along with the chorus. Exhilarating.

Maybe this is what I’ve been missing all this time.

I eye up the coffee table. I’ve got a nice buzz from the wine and the music now, and I’m happy. This is all I need.

Dancing on the table. That’s the perfect thing. I’ve never danced on a table, and today is the day.

I step onto it, between my piles of books, and wiggle, arms out to my sides. In the movies, girls look super cute, and I probably don’t. But I’m alone. No cameras or witnesses in sight, so it’s fine.

The singer hits a high note, and I pretend to sing it too, striking a pose. And in so doing, I tread on a paperback on the table that I hadn’t noticed, and slip.

I fall with all the grace of an over-caffeinated giraffe on ice, shrieking and floundering. My hip hits the floor with a thud, and my head bounces from the edge of the sofa right onto the corner of the coffee table, then to the floor.

I have enough time to feel pain exploding around my eye socket, then a book slides off the sofa and hits me in the face.

Ah, crap.

I lie there for a second, brought low by a coffee table and my paperback addiction.

“Ugh.” I pick up the book and peer at the cover.