Suddenly one Sunday, the Love Zombie trance wore off and it occurred to her that not only did she hate the sodding country, but he also was never going to turn up to Casa Del Rural Idyll.
He would never come around and catch her unawares with her lovely livestock, the carefully placed nest of eggs, Adzuki beans sprouting in the kitchen, the handwoven lavender hemp sheets, the fuqing Aga with the spelt scones, knitting indigo shit in her lingerie because that’s, you know, the sort of chick she is.
“That Neptune transit,” she thought with wonderment but no bitterness. “He wasn’t a man, he was a fuqing figment.”
Image: Nathaniel Goldberg
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