Miss Tuesday Night

You will, more thank likely, never read this.

You’ve never read anything much of what I’ve written. I like that; it’s not because you’re disinterested, it’s simply because a) you wouldn’t ever be able to find them online because I use several nom-de-plumes, and b) you realize it’s the one area of my life that gets to be my thing. My private little words, pretty much mostly to you anyway. Half of them are fluffy, flowery, typical-girl-in-love nonsense.

Then the other half are written in my head, new verses constantly being typed up with every new enounter.

When we meet, you lift me up in your arms and spin me round.

I like that too, a lot; you’re roughly two inches taller than me and (ashamedly) a little bit skinnier but you’re still so much stronger than anyone would believe. You smell amazing.You’ve got that big, ridiculous smile on your face. I love the ridiculous girly noise that escapes my mouth when you do this; it makes me remember that I’m alive, that this is really happening. Two years ago, I had no interest in love, boys, any of that kinda stuff. I just occasionally noticed the pale, skinny guy standing at the bus stop, the guy with the pretty blue eyes and nice hair.

I like that you’re a fanboy. Batman, Superman, Thor, Captain America, Daredevil. Anything. You’re not super-obsessive, you just have a shelf or two of DVDs, a little bundle of graphic novels (thanks for introducing me to them, by the way) and a handful of cute little action figures. I love yourboundless enthusiasm when you explain little details about these things that anyone else would overlook, how much you light up and gesticulate and get all animated. Same goes for all your movies; I love that you love movies. You’ve introduced me to so, so much. Granted, I introduced you to new food, but you’ve let me into your little world of movies and superheroes and little tidbits I would never have known. Thank you.

You’re such a geniunely nice, lovely person. You’re polite, you are infallibly happy and positive, you always see the good in things. You’re amazing with kids, and every girl knows that a guy who has that quality is instantly ten times more attractive than he should or has any right to be.
To this day, I’m still in awe over the fact that the first ever day I met you, you said you would make me a CD and about three days later, you handed it to me. I still take it out and play sometimes, it never fails to make me smile. Thank you.

I worry about you, too. Ridiculous things, like when I dream that you’ll fall while you’re out for a run, and you’ll lose your head or something. Or that you just disappear and I can’t ever find you and consequently have to spend the rest of my life always searching. That you’re too thin and how I just want to take you home with me for a week and feed you nothing but cake and ice cream. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to meet some new, shiny pretty girl and like her more than you like me. I don’t want you to be hurt or worried or sad. I just wish we could stay curled up on your bed, you holding me from behind, head resting on my shoulder, keeping each other warm. I love those moments, we just don’t get enough of them. I like when you trace nonsense pattern on my leg, I like when you put your hands on my neck when you kiss me. I like when you whisper into my hair.
You always make me laugh. You made me cry once or twice too, but that’s okay. The good always outweighs the bad, doesn’t it? :)

I like how much you put up with me. When I go all female and emotional, you always just put your arm around me and pretend nothing’s happening. When I go a little bit mad at you, you stick with me and say it’s okay, it’s just how I was feeling. I don’t get it, and I don’t think I ever will, and I always worry that someday I’ll overstep the mark and you’ll get sick of it. But again, thanks, and I’m sorry.

So, tomorrow is your birthday. Happy Birthday, darling. I really hope you have a fantastic little day, you deserve only the best. I love you very very much, you’ve changed me, changed everything for me. I never had a best friend until I met you.

Thank you x

…but today all I want to do is drown myself in chocolate and melty cheese and stay there for a long time. 

Maybe I don’t tell you because you’ll think it’s stupid, or you’ll have high expectations and then when they invariably don’t work out, you’ll just be that little bit more disappointed in me. Or maybe I just want to keep something to myself and be silently proud if it goes right. But I always make New Year’s resolutions. This year, I wanna be more sensible. Learn to drive. Lose a stone. Read more classic books (even if know matter how hard I try, they are actually awful and extremely long winded.) Learn some Italian or French, I’m not picky. Eat little to no chocolate until Halloween. Go camping. Be a better writer, get at least forty minutes of fresh air a day, in fact- to actually get off my ass and do something useful. Thus far, I have achieved none of these. Which really gives me the urge to type a sadface.

But WHY do we stress out and panic about doing all these things directly after New Year? It’s January. The most bleak, grey month of the year where all you wish to do is lie in a nice toasty bed and be cuddled. Really. 

You plan to run and to eat less, it makes you happy and it makes you feel alive and warm and bright and healthy. But where does a body come across the motivation to do so, in fricking January? It’s wet. And it’s bitterly cold. It seems entirely much more inviting to sit down with a fluffy blanket wrapped around you, giant sized mug of tea in hand and too many episodes of Desperate Housewives on the sky+ box and a nice fire roaring and crackling away in front of you. That to me equals a smiley face that doesn’t come with exercize. :)

You plan to be one of those fabulously stylish ladies wrapped up in pretty layers, who drink herbal tea while sitting outside listening to an audiobook that’ll teach you how to learn a new language while also reading some James Joyce, Jane Austen, a Bronte sister or Tolstoy (and actually, Tolstoy’s stuff is fairly decent!). But instead, you sit in pyjamas, nibbling cheese and reading Cosmo (not that there’s anything actually wrong with Cosmo…but James Joyce!) and checking Facebook too much. Even though nothing has happened. 

Does it actually matter though if you achieve these goals this New Year? Will it actually give you ultimate happiness? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe you’ll never be content. But doesn’t temporary right now happiness sounds good too? Be happy. Be cosy. Stop beating yourself up about that slice of cake before bed. It’s only January after all :) 

<3

She sits at the edge of the bed, pulling her heavy woolen scarf loose, messing her dark, wavy hair up. She’s thankful for the scarf, since she hadn’t brought a jacket and it’s cold here.

Her heart beats in a queer, happy way that she isn’t familiar with.

Correction, she had not been familiar with. Lately, it was becoming a habit.

She takes a deep breath. She likes this room, this dark blue room with the movie posters stuck up all over the walls and the gadgets that she’ll never be able to work, and the little things that made it him.

She stops for a second, looks down at her hand, her multi-cloured nails which he said he really liked because it was just so her. She hadn’t been as happy before him. Always with her head in a book, yes. Hungry for knowledge, and experiences? Yes. In love with the world, desperate to know all the little quirks had to offer? Absolutely. Longing to travel? All the time. So restless, so searching.

Content? Not at all.

She smirks to herself, thinks that she likes her new self a bit better, all told, and she hopes, prays almost, that the people surrounding her observe and regonize that the changes are his fault. She’s more fun, more talkative. Okay, so she doesn’t read as much, but that’s fine.

She was every bit as in love with the world as she had been, it’s just that now her world was smaller, more focused on a partuclar thing (person) and what was wrong with that?

Her legs no longer felt like they always had to be walking, to be kept constantly busy. Her heart no longer ached when she saw beatiful pictures of foreign, sunny lands. Her one solid dream was to visit Italy. He promised her they would, together.

His happy, dancey music plays in the background. His enthusiasm had charmed her. His blue eyes, his smile. The way he cared so much more than anyone else. The way they understood each other.

He adores her, he gives her everything, he keeps her warm, makes her laugh, holds her and runs his hands through her hair when she cries, does stupid things just to entertain her, tells her she’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. Which she will never believe, but it’s always nice to hear.

The door to his room creaks open, and he steps in, smiles, asks if she’s okay, does she want anything. She shakes her head no. He notices her slight shiver.

He walks to the wardrobe, pulls out an old hoodie and sets it down beside her. He unwraps her scarf, smiles down at her and pulls her arms up. She loves how he takes care of her. He pulls the hoodie over her, tells her to close her his hand on her face and she waits. He kisses her.

She pulls him next to her, they exchange a look. He envelopes her in his arms and pulls them . She thinks this is exactly how a girl should be treated. The cynical part of her mind gives her a brief image of herself if anything ever happened to him; she flinched. She hated it, for the image and for the fact that she was weak for depending so much.

But really, is it that bad?

Potentially, yes. But for right now, she doesn’t care.

Lying here, safe and warm and happy, for the first time ever, she feels content. She smiles to herself.

And if anyone asks, it’s his fault.

A/N: Didn’t write this one when I was fifteen ;) 

…is that you can fully take in how absolutely awful you were, and remind yourself that you will never be as bad as that again. In future: you’ll use less dots trying to create suspense, less characters saying “uh,” and trying to be cute. You will have a proper plot. Better characters. And you will use less flowery language!

Now, as an example…this piffle here took three hours to write:

It was only a kiss…

Kissing was something decidedly important in a relationship, no matter how big or small, frantic or relaxed, important or not- it had to be done. Preferably by the second or third date - if not the first, depending on chemistry. So far, in Greg and Clover’s relationship, it hadn’t happened yet, although they were practically exploding with chemistry. They were now onto date number five: Nada. Sure, Greg could crack all the jokes he could think of, Clover could smile, laugh at him, hug him, whatever, but lips were fated never to touch. Greg walked her to her door, leant in, only to find her torso pushed up against his and her arms around him. Now, this wasn’t something he could complain about…he loved it, really. But he definitely wanted something else, and he was beginning to wonder whether or not Clover actually liked him, found him attractive, or even pondered about kissing him.

It was hopeless. Utterly, incomprehensibly, ridiculously hopeless. And worrying. Now, they were sitting next to each other in the cinema, Clover resting her head on Greg’s shoulder, sighing contentedly. Whilst that was very nice, and rather comforting, Greg just wanted that extra dash of intimacy. All he had to do was catch Clover by surprise. That was it. The rest of his viewing experience was spent trying to concoct a cunning plan. And then he had it. He put an arm around Clover’s shoulders and pulled her closer to him. She glanced up and grinned at him, returning back to the screen a few seconds later.

Now, Greg Hadley was a secure man, by Jove, he was, but this was unsettling. He thoroughly adored Clover, the ground she walked on and he thought she was better than sliced bread.

And so, after leaving the cinema, Greg decided to play it cool. They chatted, Clover got out of the car, winked at Greg and sauntered over to her door, not letting Greg see her grinning foolishly to herself. Again, Greg felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

About two nights later, they were settled neatly beside one another on Clover’s sofa, watching the TV, one head rested against the other’s chest, when Greg couldn’t take any more of this mindless torture. Clover was clad in a plain, white tank top with spaghetti straps that made the occasional appearance from under her red cardigan, and a pair of oversized jeans, her reddish hair pulled into a clip, not a sign of makeup on her face. She sighed, yawned, reached over for the remote - all while doing it elegantly and managing to stay effortlessly attractive. Her shoulder came into brief contact with his forearm and suddenly he snapped.

“Do you hate me?” He pushed her forward slightly and turned to face her. She furrowed her eyebrows at the movement, but quickly crossed her legs and stared Greg in the eyes, all the while smiling amusedly. He’d been strangely quiet for the last half an hour or so, which was unnatural. Clover rolled up the sleeves on her cardigan and shook a stray lock of her out of her face.

“Of course I don’t hate you. I really like you, actually, otherwise I wouldn’t let you put your feet on my table.” This was a lie. She had never been bothered by people having their feet up on her table. Clover sat back and let her eyes rest on those few small freckles on his cheek. A girl could easily be won over by those freckles, and those freckles alone.

Greg had been fighting this colossal war in his head for days…his bottle couldn’t crash now. He glanced around the room, swallowed and then dared a look at Clover. “Then why can’t I kiss you?”

Clover grinned and folded her arms, a minuscule laugh escaping her ample lips. “Ohh, I get it. My little plan finally worked, huh?”

Greg turned deadly serious. “What plan?”

“The plan where I see just how forward you are. See, in the months I’ve known you, I always thought you were confident, cocky and egregiously full of bravado, which I really loved about you. But,” She smirked, glad that she’d somehow inveigled the word ‘love’ - as opposed to plain old ‘like’ - into the conversation. “I wondered just how long it would take…for you to make the first move…and then I concocted a way to make you wait; if I kinda pulled away when you put your arm around me then I figured that maybe that would put paid to your, ah, intentions. I thought I wouldn’t have been able to hold back from kissing you, and I know I’m probably not the most irresistible, but I didn’t think you would do as well as this. Congratulations. Nearly two weeks.” She extended her hand in a mock-handshake. Greg wasn’t sure what to do. He stared at her hand and tilted his head to the side.

For the first time in his twenty-six years, he was stumped. For one thing, he admired Clover for being such a smart-ass, and he was also confused as to why he had held back for so long, even though Clover and her lips had plagued his thoughts constantly. This, he decided, was a strange feeling. He took Clover’s hand and grinned. “You…tricked me. But I’m…not…sure…what to say…I guess I’m speechless.” He glanced down at her and his expression immediately changed. It went from one of mild confusion and disbelief to one of unabashed affection. Clover almost melted against the sofa. “So…can I kiss you now?”

Clover made a move towards him, placed her hand on his cheek and bit her lower lip. “Mm…no.” She should see Greg about to question her, so she immediately bolted up from the sofa and bounded over to the other end of the room. “Cause you’ll have to get to me first.” Such a childish, yet effective way of annoying someone. She ran out of the room, into several other rooms until a few minutes later, which found Greg and Clover in the kitchen, each on opposite sides of the island. Clover noticed that she seemed to have forgotten the correct way to breathe. “Ready to give up yet?”

“Nuh-uh.” Greg suppressed a smile, equally as out-of-breath as Clover. “You?”

“For a kiss? No way.” She pulled her cardigan off and flung it onto the counter. Before Greg knew it, she was on her way down the short, brightly-coloured hall. Greg flew after her and eventually caught her in the bathroom, sitting on the bath. He sighed, heftily, and shut the door behind him. “You found me.”

“That I did.” Oh, God, he sounded like a pirate. Clover laughed and scooted closer to the wall. She was still adamant that Greg would wait. He, however, had other plans. He stepped right in front of her and pulled her up, that serious, love-filled look creeping back into his eyes. Clover really loved that look. Instantly, a hand was placed on her hip while the other brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

“Mm, Greg- wait.” Her hand instinctively went to his hand, trying to halt any further actions.

“Clover, I can’t.” Greg stated, firmly, yet his smile told a completely different story.

“No, I mean…we can’t do this in the bathroom…” Much as she wanted him to kiss her, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to happen in her bathroom, filled with all manner of hideous things; three year old loofahs, several unusable toothbrushes, countless empty toothpaste packets, millions of bottles of shampoo, conditioner and gel, or mousse. Everything else that could be labelled embarrassing - or grotesque - was hidden away in a cabinet.

“Why not?”

“Because! There’s germs…stuff…” She shivered as Greg’s hands expertly made their way to her shoulder blades.

“I don’t care about the germs…or the stuff.” He genuinely didn’t; all he cared about was Clover’s lips and his lips getting together as soon as they possibly could.

“Then do it. Kiss me.” Clover bit her lip as Greg took on an entirely different expression. It was one of desire, lust, all things unholy. Clover liked that look, too.

In what seemed like an eternity, Greg finally brought a hand up to her neck and leant down, capturing his lips with Clover’s, connecting and entwining the two of them gently. Clover felt her mind go completely blank, her knees beginning to shake and her arms tangling themselves around Greg’s neck while his hands moved to either side of her waist, tentatively. Electricity surged through her, rendering her thoroughly useless. She no longer gave a damn about being in the bathroom, nor about the fact that she was being pressed into the toilet roll holder. Everything felt great - she felt fantastic. After a few seconds, Greg pulled his lips away from hers and swiftly shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Whoa.” Was all he could think to say.

“Mm.” Clover brought her index finger up to rub the corner of her mouth as she fought off a large smile.

“So…was I worth it?” Greg tilted his head to the side and leant against the wall.

Clover was shocked. Un-believable. How could he be so cocky after…well, after that monumentally epic kiss? “I…well…maybe.” She grinned. “Was I?”

“Oh, yeah.” Greg took her again by the waist and kissed her again before he led her out of the bathroom. “Now, I bet you’re wishing you hadn’t put that off for two weeks…”

And it was the truth.

—————————————————————-

See? Awful. 

14th October.

Clover O’ Malley smiled as she settled into her black, leather office chair, right behind her overtly large desk. She’d had a fantastic morning; a nice, unbroken sleep, hearty breakfast followed by one of the most delicious cups of coffee that had ever been made and her hair had been perfect all day - bouncy and thick -, her skin was positively glowing and she was fifteen minutes early for work. Ah, bliss. She pressed the ‘on’ button on her computer and sat back, steaming hot cup of coffee between her hands. She smiled and waved a hand as the staff began to roll into the slightyl chilly office. Over the eleven - and a quarter - months that she had been working there, Clover had become bosom friends with all of her co-workers, usually being the one they came to in their times of need. There was Alyssa, the unlucky-in-love, efficient girl who had only come in to do a week of work experience and ended up becoming a permanent fixture; David, her slightly cantankerous, witty friend, superb in his use of the one liner; Julie and Robert mostly kept to themselves, the quiet, reserved ones. Now Greg Hadley, on the other hand, was a different matter. Clover was a bright, gregarious girl of twenty-six and a half, while Greg was nearly six months younger than her, with a certain quality of immaturity and frivolousness that endeared him greatly to Clover. Twelve months beforehand, Clover had been miserable, lonely and unemployed. And then her friend’s boyfriend’s sister had quit her job as a receptionist in the local estate agency. Happy days for Clover; she roamed into the office of Henry R. Jenkins and worked her charm on him. A week later, she began work. The pay was good, the hours were fair, and the people seemed delightful enough. Being a natural chatterbox that loved gossip, Clover adapted perfectly with Greg. They shared several identical opinions; but in other ways, they were chalk and cheese, oil and water.

Clover’s problems only began when she started seeing Greg in a whole new light. It occurred one evening, perhaps three months earlier, just before she and Greg left the office, when she had tripped up over her left foot and crashed into the locker. Greg’s eyes had widened - not even tempted to laugh - and rushed over to her, a hand placed gently over the small of her back, his eye contact not once breaking, and then he’d pulled her into a hug, sending shivers throughout Clover. Since then, she was sure that she was absolutely, inconceivably, head-over-heels, supremely in love with him. Either that, or it was just a minor crush. Given the way her hand trembled, indiscreetly, she figured that it wasn’t the latter. Greg was always the first to roll in.

“Hey! Clover!” Uh-oh. Greg, with his dark, almost overly styled hair, flashed her a cheesy smile and managed a quick wave as he sauntered up to her desk.

As always, the familiar trembling returned with a vengeance. Clover smiled and stood up, handing him a small bundle of notes. “Hello, Greg.” Clover had been blessed with a rare, deep voice for a female, husky and slightly haunting and, of course, majorly attractive.

“Ooh.” Greg eyed up a folded-up A4 sheet with a mischievous glance, before his eyes settled on Clover. It seemed that she wasn’t the only one that enjoyed their time together. He thought Clover was fabulous; she was voluptuous, only five inches shorter than him with auburn hair that shone a deep, rusty red in the light, one side of her forehead taken up by a fringe that fell directly into her left eye. Everything about her was natural and incredible; her smile, her laugh, her sense of humour, the way she spoke, her infallible femininity, amongst other things, none of which he was counting, of course. “May I say you’re looking fine this evening…”

Oh, Greg. Always the charmer. With some of the things he came away with, Clover figured he had always harbored hidden depths, romantic ones, at that. Still, she had to try her best not to publicise her now violently red ears, and her shaky-knees. “This I know. But it’s always nice to hear.”

Greg glanced at her coffee cup with interest and nodded. “This my stuff?”

“Nope. Some other stuff, bought it for a dollar in that place across the street. Pretty nasty, actually.” Clover frowned into the cup and set it down beside her mouse. Greg tutted.

“How many times, Clover, do I have to remind you that you have my full permission-“

“To purloin your stash at any time, I know. I know. If I want some, Greg, I’ll ask you. Thank you.” Clover sighed and smiled to the new girl that had just appeared in front of her, handing over some notes and files. She turned back to Greg and bit her lip. “Can I help you, by the way? Or are you gonna block my desk all morning?”

Greg thought for a second, eyebrows raised. Then he shrugged. “Consider me gone.” And then he was, literally and all too soon, gone in the flash of an eye off to his desk, which she could almost see from her station. Clover grinned to herself and then shook her head. Soon enough everyone rolled in one by one, came up to the desk, their usual civil-selves and took their notes and messages, not really engaging in any meaningful conversation.

Clover typed away and answered the phone for three hours straight, as she did every morning, almost like clockwork. Then she took her break, again, as she always did.

XOX

When she arrived back at her desk, Clover immediately knew something was up. She had two younger sisters; she knew when people had been through her things. She plopped down onto the seat, tapped her fingers against the desk and bit her lip. Aha…Eureka…? It was a post-it note, right there, stuck onto her keyboard. Clover picked it up and surveyed it.

Want: 1; Need. 2; Longing. 3; To Lack. 4; To Want. 5; To Desire.

What? What did it mean? Clover, completely perplexed, wasn’t sure what to do, nor was she sure about why it had landed on her desk. It was odd, and it was freaky, but she chose to ignore it, crumpling it up and flinging it into the wastebasket. It was only forty minutes later that she frantically dashed down under the desk, rummaged around in the bin and un-crumpled it just so as she could re-read it. Was it a hidden message? Who or what did this person want? Who…

Clover gasped, quietly. It was a love-note. It had to be. Silently, she gushed to herself. She’d never had anyone courting or pursuing her before. Frankly, she loved it. It was exciting. It was fun. Then she looked up to see Alyssa giving her a perplexed look. Oh! She’d been sitting on the ground, grinning at the notelet. Quickly, she scrambled up to her feet and tucked a loose strand of currently-dark-brown hair behind an ear. “Hey, Alyssa!”

“Hi, uh, Clover…everything okay?” Ayssa shot her an amused look and eyed up the offending Post-It with caution.

Clover nodded, eagerly. “Yes. Definitely. Everything’s great…”

Alyssa arched an eyebrow, but didn’t push any further with the conversation. “Uh, okay…have you got any messages for me?”

Clover glanced in her notebook. “Uh…yes. Juliet Cramer wants you to call her on this,” she ripped out a tiny fragment of paper and handed it to her. “Number here and Richard, um…Jackson? Yeah, he says he’s worried about you. You’re not answering your cell, Alyssa…bad times.” She tilted her head to the side and lowered her bottom lip.

Alyssa swallowed and smiled, nervously. Lately, her personal life had been on the up, and she hadn’t wanted to jinx it. A simple, “Okay, thanks.” would suffice for now.

Just as the younger girl was about to walk away, Clover halted her. “Hey, ‘Lyssa?”

“Yeah?” The aforementioned swivelled round.

Clover glanced down at the message…she raised her eyebrow, biting the inside of her cheek. Alyssa would more than likely laugh about the note…nobody really did things like that these days, and did Clover really want word getting out that she had a stalker? “Oh…nothing. Nevermind. See you.” With that, Sara shot her another bemused look and walked off. Clover looked once more at the note and, after pondering whether she should crumple it up again, folded it neatly and shoved it into her drawer.

XOX

In the remaining four days, Clover had received five more yellow Post-It notes, all hidden in her drawer, all containing random words that somehow ended up meaning the one thing; Desire. Someone desired her. But the words seemed to be getting much more serious. It started from want, to need, desire, passion, adoration and so forth. Clover, too, had gone from being flattered, flustered and now she was slightly freaked out about the whole thing. The notes all seemed to appear, magically, when she came back from her break. Clover had been trying her best to investigate, but it only ended up leaving her frustrated and at a dead-end. She just wished she knew who was sending her these notes.

Clover opened the door to her apartment and sighed. She quickly sauntered in and shut it behind her, knowing that she would immediately be greeted by Houdini, the cat, as she was every evening before her dinner. Or was it breakfast?

“Hey, Hoodie.” She bent down and petted the pleasantly-plump, all-grey beast that happened to resemble a teddy-bear more than a cat, with an unfortunate crumpled ear. The cat purred as it rubbed itself against Clover’s leg. “Whoa, hey, hair, Houdini, don’t get it on my trousers. Not until I get changed. Good boy.” She ambled past the cat, into the living room where she flicked her TV on for background noise, and walked into her bedroom, dumping her handbag on the floor beside her bedside cabinet before she flopped down onto the edge of the double-sized bed and kicked her shoes off. Then came the trousers, and the blouse. She pulled on a loose, white tank-top and a pair of baggy, black bottoms, topping it off with bright pink, leopard-print slippers. She removed her eyeliner, tied her hair up in a tight clasp and headed towards the kitchen where she quickly produced a tin of cat-food and plopped it into a bowl for Houdini, rubbing a finger behind his ear as she made to stand up. She washed her hands, threw a ready-made macaroni n’ cheese dinner into the microwave and leant against the counter. It was then that a question popped into her head:

Who on God’s green earth would desire her? She had just spent ten, dull, menial minutes of her life feeding herself and her cat and now she looked as though she had been dragged through a thorny-bush, backwards, so it was a perfectly legitimate question. The microwave pinged and not even two minutes later, Clover was on her couch, blanket wrapped around her lower half, watching some random infomercial.

Half an hour after that, she gave in and fell asleep, Houdini lying on her stomach, remote clutched in her hand in the most desirable manner possible.

XOX

Greg rolled into the office at his usual time, bantered with several co-workers, waiting patiently for twelve-thirty-seven. At twelve-thirty-seven, every day, Clover O’ Malley went on a break. At twelve-thirty-eight, Greg snuck away from his desk and left a post-it note somewhere that he knew she would find it. Tonight, he would leave it poking out from under her keyboard. He knew she had been going crazy, interrogating everyone that had the indecency and the audacity to lurk around her desk. He was smart. He stayed away, only ever bumping in to her in the break room, or the locker room. Thankfully, or rather, unfortunately, she hadn’t suspected him. He was going to give it a few more days and then he’d start setting little traps for her. Oh, yes, he was a genius. He walked back to his desk and watched as Clover sat down at her desk and arched her eyebrow before she picked up the note.

It had been a daring move, especially for a boy who had once been crippled by his overwhelming shyness, but the book he’d been reading said that the results would be well worth it.

Oh, Greg hoped. He really, really hoped.

XOX

“Adam Jones called, he wants you to call him back immediately, Sarah Llewellyn - I think she might be British, by the way - says she has some information regarding a case from three years ago that you and your team didn’t bother your asses about…her words, not mine, and, uh, could I speak with you, privately, please? It’ll only take a moment.” Clover was stood in front of Henry Jenkin’s desk, hovering over it with some suspicious notes in her hand. Henry, a man of 56, sunniest disposition known to man, was already reading through his own messages, of which there were far too many for a boss, in his opinion.

Henry glanced up and removed his glasses. “Of course, Clover. Take a seat.”

Clover sat, reluctantly, and tapped the offending post-it notes against the table. She cleared her throat. “Well…these here things,” She handed him the notes and folded her arms. “Have been the bane of my existence for, uh, about two weeks now, and, frankly, they’re kinda starting to get to me. I don’t know who is sending them to me, but they always appear after I’ve taken my break.” Clover sighed, heavily, after saying everything in one, hurried sentence without a breath.

The boss glanced through the notes, one eyebrow raised. He was stone-cold silent for a few moments before he brought his index finger up to his lip, thinking deeply. Clover frowned to herself. How long did the man need before he could say something to her? All she wanted was a tiny bit of reassurance. Finally, he spoke. “You have no idea who might be sending these to you?”

Oh, good Lord. “No, Sir. I haven’t a clue.”

Henry pursed his lips. “Hm.”

Oh, this was no use, Clover decided. She stood up and picked up her notes. “But I’m sure there isn’t anything to worry about. Probably just someone or other playing a trick on me. You know how they get, cooped up all day.” She shook her head, nervously backing out of the room. Mr. Jenkins only nodded.

“You could be right, Clover…but if this thing persists, you come get me, okay?” Henry was almost like her father in the way he protected his staff, his little family away from home. She momentarily wondered about his wife and kids.. She nodded and started out of the door and back to her desk. Of course there was a new note. There just had to be! She flopped down on her chair and read it slowly.

‘Go to the break room. Look under the coffee machine.’

So she did. She shot right back up out of her chair, not even caring if the phone rang constantly whilst she was gone, and found herself in the break room a few moments later. As she ran over to the coffee machine, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Only the note under the coffee machine, exactly were Mr. Post-It Note-Guy had told her to look. It was a number, presumably his, and a hurriedly scribbled down, ‘Call Me’. Clover arched her eyebrow, stuffed the note into the her pocket and made a mental note to ring the number later on from a phone that most definitely didn’t belong to her.

XOX

Greg paced the car park outside, on the verge of losing his cool; he shouldn’t have done that. He’d probably both scared Clover half to death and committed a felony all at once, and he really wished that he hadn’t. He leant against his car and sighed, heavily. He was beginning to think that the book had lied to him, in a major way. He should probably come clean, give up while he was still ahead. He’d seen Clover angry before; maybe less than half-a-dozen times…but it wasn’t very pleasant. She’d slammed things, scowled and then smacked her hand against her forehead and told Greg that she was very busy and could he please, please, come back when she wasn’t as annoyed. He stood up and sauntered over to the door, about to open it when his cell-phone rang.

XOX

“Hello?” Clover swallowed. She definitely knew that voice. Even though it was one word, she knew it. But she wasn’t going to reply. “Hello?” The voice extended his ‘o’, and she knew that she had definitely heard it before. Somewhere. It was the cleaner…no, it wasn’t, it was…no, no use. She didn’t have enough evidence to back it up. “Uh, is this Clover O’ Malley?” Was that…Greg Hadley? He cleared his throat. “If it is, I’m sorry for the notes…it was just a-a…minor…shortage in brain power and thinking…and I’m sorry if I offended you…” There was a pause. “Look, if you want to talk, I’ll be in the locker room. For ten minutes. If you want to talk. If you, don’t, that’s fine, great, but…okay. I’m going now. Bye…”

He hung up, and Clover smiled to herself, knowing exactly what she had to do.

XOX

Greg pouted slightly as he flicked through some God-awful women’s magazine that he’d found in the locker room. Each time he heard footsteps that could only belong to a female wearing high-heeled shoes, as Clover always did, he almost jumped up out of the chair only to find extreme disappointment. He scanned an article to do with the ongoing battle for women to become a size zero – Greg thought this was twaddle, women were supposed to have meat on them…it just added something extra and nice to hold onto - , when he was cut off once more by the heels. This time, he didn’t bother going to check. He didn’t get up and he didn’t really care who it was.

“Hi, Greg.” Clover was leaning against a locker, arms folded, one foot entangled with the other, very light smile across her full lips. Greg swivelled round in his seat, hair a mess from being nervously tousled too much, eyebrows raised and mouth contorted into an ‘O’ of shock. Clover untangled each of her limbs and slowly crossed the room to sit in front of him, lifting one leg over the bench and plopping herself down onto it.

“Hey, Clover…so…you got my notes, huh?” Greg smiled, deciding that he’d be better to try and charm her as opposed to groveling. Did girls even like groveling anymore?

Clover tilted her head, thoughtfully. “Yes, I did, Mr. Hadley. They were kinda…”

“Cool? Effective?” Greg smiled, his mouth leaning more to one side than to other. Clover fought not to laugh at him. She had to admit it, even though she wasn’t expecting it, she was more than pleased that it was the slightly geeky boy in front of her that had sent her the notes in lieu of anyone else in the building. Ecstastical, even. Enraptured. All good things, starting with ‘E’.

“A mix, I’d say, between genius and risque.” She examined the bench between her legs, one finger trailing over the edge of it, just missing the gorgeous smile attached to Greg’s face. “So…” Clover had only just noticed her heart suddenly beating at five-thousand miles per hour. “You, um, want me?”

Greg’s smile faltered. He considered this for a few moments. Yes, he did want Clover. But probably not in the way she thought. He wanted her for more than one night…he wanted her for years, not hours. He held up one defensive hand, indignantly. “No, Clover-“

“It’s okay, Greg. I get it. You like me, I like you…” Clover grinned, wildly. She scooted forward a couple more inches, leaving barely a foot of distance between herself and Greg. “If you want me…” She picked Greg’s hand up from where it had been perched on his knee an examined it, running a random index finger over it. “I guess…you’ve got me.” Her eyes settled on his and, for a split-second - in which Greg almost collapsed from the pleasure of Clover’s touch and her gaze -, she considered kissing him. But then she smirked, scooted back and stood up, kicking one leg up and over the bench, coming to meet the other one.

“But, you said…” Greg was dumbfounded. Honestly, he’d never had a more perplexing day in his life. First, Clover hadn’t reacted badly to his madness and secondly, she had told him he could have her…and now she stands up? What a confusing, but incredible, creature.

Clover placed a hand on her hip and bit her lower lip. “But…you’re gonna have to take me out first. Breakfast? Or coffee? Your choice…actually,” She considered something for a second before she held her index finger up. “I have to feed my cat, but…I’m free any other night…” She started for the door, until Greg finally got off his ass and caught up with her. He placed a hand on her arm and made sure she was looking at him.

“Whoa, up, there…you mean…you’ll go out with me?” His eyebrows shot up. Clover nodded. “And you’re not mad at me for stalking you?” A smile and a shake of the head.

“No. And stop acting like you’re so surprised. It’s not winning you any points.” Clover folded her arms, mockingly, and leant forward, planting a single, feather-light kiss to his cheek. Currently, at that very nanosecond, Greg couldn’t win any more points in her estimation. “I’ll see you, Greg.” She winked at him and turned on her heel, out of the door. Greg sighed, contentedly, and walked up to the door, punching the air with a silent ‘yes!’.

Like Mick Jagger had once said, you can’t always get what you want.

But Greg had. And so had Clover.

XXXX

Author’s Note: Yes, it’s awful. I wrote it when I was fifteen, and it’s fanfiction with names/places and a few other things changed, but there’s something about it that I’m vaguely proud of still :)

Introductions are one of my favourite things. You get a small space of time to make a good first impression. You are a mystery, an enigma. From a distance, people can make assumptions. They might think you are friendly, or annoyed, or depressed, simply based on your demeanor and countenance (as you can already tell, I like big words). They might think you’re nice, or mean and nasty depending on your actions towards others. But then once you and they break the initial layer of ice, they might find you to be entirely the opposite of their assumption. 

So this is what you can know about me.

I enjoy typically girly things. Chocolate, romantic comedies, fairy lights strung up around the bedpost. Flowery dresses. Tea. Pink nail varnish. I love a beautifully structured sentence. I like the sound of my own laugh, but hate the sound of my voice. Ghost stories and scary movies terrify and scar me for weeks after but I love them. I’m homeschooled, not Mormon. I’d love to have lived in the 1950s, anywhere really. I’d love to travel. I wish I could cook, wish I could sing and dance better and I wish I could write 500 words a day like you’re supposed to. Music is fantastic. Baking is resplendent (super mega foxy word). Halloween is the best time of year (it’s my birthday). I’d love to be able to run without getting a vicious stitch. I’d love to be more fun, more louder and brighter and better. My uncle and I share exactly the same birthmark in exactly the same place (side of head, a thumb-shaped red mark) and his is much more noticeable since he hasn’t any hair to cover it. Blue is my favourite colour. I’d like to be called Allie or Rebecca, Lucy or Eleanor. Something old fashioned and pretty.

My family are brilliant, occasionally irksome but I’d be lost without them. We have too many cats. I have a select bunch of friends, each one with their own purpose; the pizza friend, the book friend, the tv friend, the everything friend, the friend I have no idea why I like and hang around with but I do. My partner in crime (who we will occasionally (perhaps), for the sake of the thing call Mr Wednesday (we met on a Wednesday, conveniently enough), and he makes me decidedly happy.

I have absolutely zero clue what I’d like to do with my life. Maybe a photographer- if I had a camera. Maybe a chemist-if I’d gone to college. Librarian maybe-but not yet. A chef-if I had the patience. A writer-if I could be bothered, and wasn’t so restless. I’d like to travel. Italy. New York. Paris. I’d like to live a really good, full, warm and content life. But we’ll just have to see.

And that’s kinda it, really. Nothing too exciting. Expect a ton nonsensical ramblings to come..:)

Cheers, dears!

misstuesdaynight x