Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

of his own taxi, and he stands in the street with his arms out to me and a huge
grin on his face – ‘Baby!’ – and I run and I jump up into his arms and he
presses a stubbly cheek against mine.
‘What did you do tonight?’ I ask.
‘Some guys were playing poker after work, so I hung around for a bit.
Hope that was okay.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘More fun than my night.’
‘Who all showed up?’
‘Oh, Campbell and Insley and their dancing monkeys. Boring. You
dodged a bullet. A really lame bullet.’
He squeezes me into him – those strong arms – and hauls me up the stairs.
‘God, I love you,’ he says.
Then comes sex and a stiff drink and a night of sleep in a sweet,
exhausted rats’ tangle in our big, soft bed. Poor me.