(He liked to get up at five A.M. so he could visit the gym before work. She liked the results on his lean body, but didn’t enjoy waking in an empty bed.) She sat there on his expensive leather couch, and dug down into the bowl she held on her lap, seeking the last few little clouds of popcorn buried amidst the hard, unpopped kernels. She licked her fingertips, savoring the last taste of butter and salt. Steve’s living room was dark, except for the big flat-screen TV over by the wet bar. (A true bachelor pad.) The airwaves tonight seemed dominated by so-called reality shows: people forcing themselves to eat disgusting things; people racing through airports and across foreign landscapes; housefuls of fake-titted bimbos and male models and second-string celebrities loudly failing to get along. Michelle’s attention wandered. She looked around the room, noticing piles of things in the dim blue light: clothes, junk mail, rental videotapes, CDs. Steve was certainly not a neat freak like one Jack Leightner.
