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To the restless, the insomniacs, the stressed out, the overwork
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the doom scrollers, the worried, and the board. This is
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for you. Good writing is meant to make you think.
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This is the opposite. Short, funny, and unfortunately true stories
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that have mostly to do with nothing to help you
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turn off your brain and turn on your rim. All
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names have been changed to protect the guilty. These are
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anxiety addicts bedtime stories.
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Hannah did not like the front page article of her
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usual news website. It was about birth order, and it
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was totally on point, and it irritated the shit out
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of her. The youngest of four, Yeah, she'd grown up
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a bit differently than her brothers and sisters. Sick of
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hearing from her older siblings about how easy she'd had it,
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about how they'd broken in their mom and dad for her,
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how she'd had the freedom that they never could have fathomed.
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Hannah assumed that now that they were all more or
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less fully functioning adults, they could move on to a
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new conversation, like how Manchester United was doing, or how
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Hannah's career as a news reporter for their local station
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was taking off. Hannah was twenty five years old and
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didn't want to hear one more word about being the
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baby of the family and this alleged peter Pan syndrome
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she was living. There were other dinner conversation topics out there,
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she was pretty sure of it. Walking through Shoreditch on
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her way home from the studio, Hannah was on her
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regular everyday call with her mother. She would wrap up
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her work around five point thirty, trade out her heels
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for her trainers, pop in her ear pods, and call Mom.
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They'd chat about whatever was going on at home, which
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was oftentimes an exercise and redundancy, since Hannah came home
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seven blocks away at least three times a week for
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laundry and and sometimes more often if she'd had a
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bad date or needed pampering to recover from a dentist appointment.
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Five minutes into their conversation, as Hannah crossed Columbia Road,
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her phone beeped with a call waiting from her eldest brother, Ugh, Mom,
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just a sack, it's Dennis. Hannah switched over. Dennis never
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felt the need to start a conversation with pleasantries. He
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was a doctor at the A and E, which is
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Britain's er Accident and recovery was the perfect fit for
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a brain like Dennis's. He was too smart for his
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own good, terrible with people, and astonishingly excellent under pressure.
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So he got to treat patients with acute conditions, diagnose, operate,
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and not have to have a meaningful conversation with anybody.
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It should go without saying that he was still single,
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even with all the setups from his mom's book club.
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He was calling to vent. I popped by the house
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to deliver a new vitamin to father, and I saw
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all of your things everywhere. Hannah tried to exhale her
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secret evening cigarette without him hearing. Luckily, when Dennis was
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on a chair, he generally only listened to himself. You
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have to grow up, Hannah. You can't have your parents
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take care of you forever. It's why no one wants
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to date you. Oh really, Hannah tried not to snort
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pot and kettle much. I'm not keen on having this
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conversation with you. Dennis took a breath. She could sense
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him trying to mitigate his emotions, which was not her
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brother's strong suit. I'm just saying it's no good for
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you to rely on them for every Hannah interrupted, can
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I call you back, I'm on the other line, with
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whom Dennis shot back. Hannah had no choice but to
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hang up on him. When she got back to her apartment,
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a basket of folded laundry sat on her stoop. A
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note in her mother's loopy cursive lay on the top. Darling,
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Dennis says, we need to stop doing wash. I fear
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he's right. I love you. Hannah reached down for the basket.
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She felt a sting in her gut. She didn't have
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a washer, and the closest launderette was eight blocks away,
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further than her parents home. Hannah huffed her way up
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three flights of stairs with her arms full of clean nickers.
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She patted Peaky, her ten year old Siamese cat, and
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plopped down on the sofa to binge some terrible reality
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television until she needed to get ready for her hinge
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date at the pub downstairs. Her phone dinged, it was Dennis.
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This conversation isn't over, really, I think it is. Hannah
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rolled her eyes at Peaky, who seemed to unequivocally agree
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with her. Her fingers raced across her screen like only
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a gen zer could pull off. I'm just fine. Mom
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likes my company. At least I give them attention. She'd
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barely pressed sent when Dennis's retort flew in, you need
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to grow up. Stop asking everyone else to take care
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of you. Okay. For the most part, Hannah knew better
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than to tell Dennis to piss off. As her mom
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often said about her firstborn, his delivery was terrible, but
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his message was well meaning. This irritated her. Maybe it
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was because she was hungry, Maybe it was because the
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specific internet date had been canceled twice and she was wary.
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Or maybe it was because deep down she knew that
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there was some truth to his scolding. It didn't matter.
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Hannah was solidly peeved. She patted into her tiny apartment kitchen,
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which she'd started painting blue after a late night TikTok
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in Spo video and had never finished. There, she stood
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in front of the freezer and ate a few spoonfuls
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of ice cream right out of the container. Toweling off
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her hair. After a satisfyingly hot shower with her special conditioner,
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Hannah was finishing her makeup, dressed to the nines, ignoring
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the texts from Dennis where he was not taking the hint.
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When she heard the specific chime of the hinge app
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Hannah knew the date was canceled before she actually read
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the text. Was she being catfished? Had Paul, as he
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said his name, was found a better date, someone with
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their own condominium and a master's degree, or had Dennis
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somehow managed to break into her account and message her
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suitor with a list of her faults, including her inability
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to manage her washing without the help of her sixty
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year old mother. It didn't matter. Hannah put down her
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phone with her canceled date and stared into her makeup mirror.
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She didn't look like a loser. She looked put together.
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She'd been on camera at the station for the last
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eighteen months and had collected a wardrobe that projected a competent, young,
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professional woman. Her honey blonde hair looked terrific pulled back
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into a sleek bun, and her freshly shaved and moisturized
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skin shown more because she was twenty five, and less
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because she ate all of her vegetables. But how would
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anyone else know that she'd gone through all this trouble
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to have a fun and exciting romp in the hay
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is a good start to her weekend. Truthfully, she'd been
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messaging and pseudo cyberstocking this specific man for well over
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a month and had a fully formed fantasy of both
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six hours and sixty years with him. Hannah took a
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more critical look at her perfectly applied winged eyeliner. Online
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dating sucked. She erased Paul's messages from her phone and
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slumped into the chair at her dressing table. What a
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waste of time blow drying in her good products. Now
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what was she going to do? Her two best girlfriends
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also had dates planned for the night, where one would
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be getting perfectly tipsy and the other would be getting
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perfectly drunk. She could go to the pub by herself.
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She'd certainly spend enough time getting ready, But her heart
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wasn't in pretending to be interested in a professional adjacent
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footballer just to be taken to a dirty flat chalk
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full of roommates. But she wasn't just going to sit
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home either. Hannah pulled on her coat and trainers, said
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bye to Peeky, and headed out for a walk. It
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was a place to start. She put in her ear buds,
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stopped herself midway from dialing her mom and instead listened
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to a little Nicki Minaj to keep her spirits up.
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She may have allowed herself a second secret cigarette. She
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wandered through her old neighborhood, full of cute shops and
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cobblestone streets, until she came to the next set of blocks,
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the part of town that had always been a bit seaedier.
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The area had been the place to go pubbing when
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she'd been under age before university, Hannah and her friends
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would borrow clothes from their older sisters, style themselves in
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the most mature way they could fathom, and walk into
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these watering holes with fake ideas that couldn't a fooled peaky.
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She smiled to herself, remembering those silly nights, feeling momentarily
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superior and grown up. The neon glow of pink and
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green from a tiny shop front caught her attention. As
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Hannah walked further down the road to investigate. She was
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surprised that she'd never noticed this place before. The store
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was small and an all glass front with frosted windows
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and strategically splattered gold paint flakes made it seem like
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a posh jewelry store or a secret champagne tasting room.
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Both of those possibilities piqued Hannah's interest. She pressed the
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glossy red bell to the right of the door and
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waited for a few seconds to be buzzed in. A
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woman in a black turtleneck and leather pants sat at
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a glass desk at the back of the shop. She
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had porcelain skin and dark eyes, and a look that
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quietly whispered sophistication in a way that Hannah was immediately
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convinced that she herself would never experience. The woman gave
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her a smile without moving her face. Please, come in,
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what are you looking for tonight? It was at that
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moment that Hannah realized she had no idea what this
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specific store specifically sold. That's when she looked at the
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wall on her li left. On polished shelves with brass
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brackets were impressive displays of glass and gold. What each
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objets dar was a different size with a slightly different curve.
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Some sat upon little thrones that appeared to be plugged
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into discrete outlets. Lining the wall to her right were
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beautiful jars shaped like expensive perfume bottles, and on the
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ceiling were leather straps and Oh my god, this was
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a sex shop. Hannah being Hannah, only needed half a
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second after realizing where she was to be totally fine
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with where she was. She smiled at the shopkeeper. Because
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she was twenty five, she could move her whole face.
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What do you suggest? The woman in black reached under
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her desk, pulled out a chrome box, and placed it
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on the glass top. This is the finest of its kind,
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a new company out of Switzerland. We've just received a shipment.
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There was a waitlist, but I can sell you this.
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Hannah tried not to gasp as the woman's slid silk
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gloves over her hands to demonstrate the abilities of the
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Hope diamond of dildo's. It looks like magic. It shook
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and whistled and performed starts and stops like a well
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rehearsed orchestra. The top moved at a different speed than
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the bottom. The buttons on the remote, yeah it had
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a remote, were sleek, like they'd been born from an
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apple product. The chrome sparkled, reflecting the sexy lighting of
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the shop. She was mesmerized. Even the woman in black
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appeared briefly hypnotized by the piece. Hannah's irritation with being
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stood up, the glimmer of the piece of art, and
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her proclivity for impulse shopping all got the best of her.
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I'll take it, of course, said the woman in black,
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looking pleased. Without twitching a muscle, she placed it back
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in its velvet lined box, wrapped the package in tissue paper,
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and then slid it into a real leather bag. That
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would be three hundred and forty seven pounds. Hannah gasped.
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That was more than she presently had in her checking account,
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which was not her fault. She'd spent quite a lot lately,
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again not her fault. How could she have said no
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to the wine tasting in Paris, or the Tom Brown
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saale or the and before she knew what her hands
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were doing, Hannah fished her parents' emergencies only credit card
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out of her wallet. A thought briefly flashed through her
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mind that maybe Dennis was right about a few things,
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but she pushed it right out of her head so
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she could focus on getting this new purchase out of
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the store and into her apartment as quickly as humanly possible.
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It was a good thing that Hannah was wearing her sneakers.
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She scribbled her name across the bottom of the receipt
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using the shop's heavy ink pen, and left the Gucci
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of sex stores with a woman in bloe black type
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smile on her face. She dashed through the cobblestone streets,
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past the raucous pubs where the smokers congregated outside the door,
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and jingled her key into her lock, practically skipping up
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all three flights of stairs this time. When she came home,
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she only said a quick hello to Peaky. She was
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interested in a much different kitty. Sorry, we had to,
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Hannah dimmed her lights, hopped into bed and unwrapped, truly
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the fanciest gift that anyone had ever purchased for her.
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She briefly glanced at the book of directions, but they
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were in Swedish, so she tossed them to the floor,
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and then she got down to business into bed, taking
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off her laziest undergarments and pressing the same buttons that
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the woman in black hat only half an hour before.
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This was the life, wasn't it. Why did her entire
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generation believe that they needed a man to be happy?
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What was wrong with her existence? She loved her job,
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she was good at it. She had an adorable apartment
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and a great part of town. Life was good. Why
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was she letting her single status cloud which should be
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the best years of her life? Okay? Was she slightly immature? Yeah? Maybe, okay, fine,
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but her parents loved doing things for her and having
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her around the house, and didn't they Hannah pressed another button.
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Oh my, holy, what the what? Yes? Yes, yes, this
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thing was great. It was fabulous, This gilded machine was
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so much more than she ever dreamed it could be.
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A man had never been able to read her mind
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like this little buzzing thing was doing. She let out
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a sigh that she was sure her neighbors could hear,
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but Hannah did not care. It was worth every penny