Fog Bastards 1 Intention Read Online Free Page B

in a whopping 550 square feet. The kitchen, living room, dining room, and bedroom are pretty much all in the same place, a 20 foot by 20 foot square. The bathroom and closet account for the other 150 feet. But it's got an ocean view, a balcony, and it's only $2,300 a month.
     
     
While Halloween eats and watches SportsCenter, I text Jen, who is at her job by now. The woman works at the Federal Reserve branch, though I'm not exactly sure what she does there. We've only been together six months, so I'm not worried about details yet. They don't let her take personal calls, I'll have to wait til she's on break for a response. I suggest calling in sick tomorrow and heading to the Wynn tonight.
     
     
My parents, and everyone else she knows, think Jen is the perfect lady. She's smart, helpful, polite, great sense of humor, kind to old ladies and kids, never swears or says one bad word about anyone, dresses well, keeps her apartment neat and perfectly outfitted. My mom and dad are both in love with her, and I get why, they think she'll produce perfect grandchildren and be the perfect mom.
     
     
Mostly, she bores the crap out of me. The woman works, works out, shops, eats, dances, and watches movies. That's it. She hates sports, won't even go to a game or race to appease me. I can take her to Hawaii for free anytime she wants to go, but she's so afraid to fly she's never been. Won't go in the ocean. Won't go near a campsite. Doesn't care about anything except what movie star is breaking up with what other star, what new outfit she needs, or what new club is opening. Barely knows that we have a president, much less who he is, or what he and Congress are fighting over.
     
     
She does look spectacular in a bikini, especially the legs and butt with the hours she devotes to them in the gym and on the dance floor. And she is absolutely the wildest woman I have ever taken to bed. The mouth that won't say "damn" in public says a whole lot more interesting things in private. I never even have to suggest, she initiates. It's not dinner, movie, then sex with her, she considers the whole thing one big session of foreplay, hands and feet sneaking around for hours before the clothes come off. Her mouth on any part of your body is almost more than a man can stand. Her whispers in your ear are as good as sex with some women.
     
     
Which means that everyone else expects us to end up another happily domestic couple, and I want to hang on a while longer, and then find the real thing. It's going to be hard to explain to my friends and family some day. Or maybe not. I might be dead soon.
     
     
I raise the blinds, open the sliding door onto the patio and head outside with my ebook reader to check out the LA Times , the London Independent , and West Hawaii Today . Halloween climbs up on her cat climber in front of the non-sliding part of the sliding glass to watch me from the safety of the apartment. I read for an hour or so until my phone buzzes, and Jen lets me know it's going to be dinner and a movie. I wonder if Mr. Fog Dude will make a trip over to her place?
     
     
She has me pick her up downtown at 6, which means I get to endure the miserable traffic on her behalf. It probably also means getting up really early tomorrow to drop her off before my return to paradise, since we're not getting her car out of the garage. It's OK, though, since dead people don't have to run.
     
     
Starbuck and I get there a couple minutes early, and Jen is waiting for us on the sidewalk. I manage to get honked at only twice for stopping in the traffic on Olympic. It's an easy ride down to the 10, and we scoot across to Santa Monica and our favorite little Italian place, complete with old man waiters wearing suits, staff-free. I must have been bad company, because she's pissed at me by the time we arrive.
     
     
Sal, our regular waiter, brings our drinks almost before we sit down, and lets us know our order is already in. Does that mean we eat there too often?