However. It is still there.
It is approaching the point of ridicule, trying to so obviously avoid her, yet I do not really have any other option, unless I want the whole school to know about it (and people would, given her lung capacity). She wanted it. I could see it. Not to deny that I agreed with her, but if she could have used that small area of her brain not occupied with plotting my obscene and extremely unappetising death, and actually thought of what was most likely going to happen afterwards, then we would not have a problem at all.
Damn it; it was great, and that was my sole requirement. I did not ask for heart-shaped pillows and chocolate, nor did she, and look how well that went. It was just sex, for fuck’s sake, and not some blasted wedding proposal. Lust is ten times superior to love—you do not need to degrade yourself in the process.
If Fletcher would shut his mouth about her, then I’d say we’d have a pretty nice day. Books, first-year essays and some music to accompany my molesting. Though I lack alcohol, I have not had any for personal use since the beginning of December, and now I am feeling rather prudish, in that department at least.
A couple of people in the ranks have owled me with rather strange tales, though they do not want to admit the extent of them. I gather it must be something about their Marks, and have responded in likewise cryptic terms, but as long as I do not perfectly know what precisely is going on, then I could just as well be better off knowing nothing. Maybe a bit of subtle blackmail would be in order. I know some quite excruciatingly embarrassing things about Wogan, for a start, involving a couple of Flobberworms and a quite ugly girl.
Also, Parkinson or whatever her new name is now, had better watch her step. The nerve.