fifty-shades-of-grey

I stop beside a large spruce and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, draggingprecious air into my lungs. Oh, this feels good, cathartic. I can feel my resolve hardening.Yes. I need to tell him what’s okay and what isn’t. I need to email him my thoughts, andthen we can discuss these on Wednesday. I take a deep cleansing breath, then jog back tothe apartment.Kate has been shopping, as only she can, for clothes for her holiday to Barbados.Mainly bikinis and matching sarongs. She will look fabulous in all of them, yet she stillmakes me sit and comment while she tries on each and every one. There are only so manyways one can say – you look fabulous Kate. She has a curvy, slim figure to die for. Shedoesn’t do it on purpose, I know, but I haul my sorry, perspiration clad, old t-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers ass into my room on the pretext of packing more boxes. Could I feelany more inadequate? Taking the awesome free technology with me, I set the laptop up onmy desk. I email Christian.__________________________________________________________________From: Anastasia SteeleSubject: Shocked of WSUVDate: May 23 2011 20:33To: Christian GreyOkay, I’ve seen enough.It was nice knowing you.AnaI press send, hugging myself, laughing at my little joke. Will he find it as funny? Oh shit– probably not. Christian Grey is not famed for his sense of humor. But I know it exists,I’ve experienced it. Perhaps I’ve gone too far. I wait for his answer.I wait… and wait. I glance at my alarm clock. Ten minutes have passed.To distract myself from the anxiety that blooms in my belly, I start doing what I toldKate I would be doing – packing up my room. I begin by cramming my books into a crate.By nine, I’ve heard nothing. Perhaps he’s out. I pout petulantly as I plug my iPod ear budsin, listen to Snow Patrol, and sit down at my small desk to re-read the contract and makemy comments.I don’t know why I glance up, maybe I catch a slight movement from the corner of myeye, I don’t know, but when I do, he’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom watchingme intently. He’s wearing his grey flannel pants and a white linen shirt, gently twirling hiscar keys. I pull my ear buds out and freeze. Fuck!“Good evening, Anastasia.” His voice is cool, his expression completely guarded andunreadable. The capacity to speak deserts me. Damn Kate for letting him in here with nowarning. Vaguely, I’m aware that I’m still in my sweats, un-showered, yucky, and he’s justgloriously yummy, his pants doing that hanging from the hips thing, and what’s more, he’shere in my bedroom.“I felt that your email warranted a reply in person,” he explains dryly.