One More Notch

She was never good with the beginnings. Or the endings. Or the middles. Love never even existed (not even as a thought) in her heart, for her heart was broken beyond repair. She liked to party until the Sun would rise and then fall down again. The only form of a relationship she approved, or got the closest, was the one that happens in a spur of moment, and was seen in movies and cheep, twenty dollar romance novels that hung on the rack in convenience store near the gas station.

He was never good with just being in a romantic relationship; the kind where everything is perfect and you love each other and you cherish every moment together. He enjoyed the moments spent together, sure, but more so he adored the freedom and being away from the tightening clutches of relationship.

Now, imagine the two of them together.

A collision of two completely the same personas, a match made in Hell itself.

There was no love involved.

There were no feelings, whatsoever.

There was only alcohol and lust. The thing in between was just a force of habit.

Rosalind Murphy wanted to escape the reality.

Tyson Ritter wanted good ol’ fuck.