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I lasted until Monday lunchtime. She answered on the second ring.
“It’s the honest man,” she said. “Tuesday. Seven. You’re buying me a curry, and it’s not costing more than twenty quid.”
The curry house was on the corner by the launderette, all flock wallpaper and laminated menus. Priya turned up in jeans and a huge cardigan, no makeup, hair in a clip, and she was even more beautiful than she’d been in white sequins. We split a jalfrezi and two naans and talked for three hours. It came to eighteen pounds forty.
“Under budget,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
Her flat was upstairs, warm and cluttered, fairy lights and a grumpy grey cat. She kicked the door shut and kissed me against it, and nobody said anything about rules.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom. She pulled my shirt off on the sofa, and I finally got to touch her the way I’d wanted to in that booth: her full tits in my hands, the swallow tattoo under my mouth, my fingers sliding into her until she was gasping. She pushed me back, rolled a condom on me and climbed on, sinking all the way down with a long, shaky moan.
“Seven years,” she breathed, rocking slowly. “Seven years of dancing on men and never finishing.”
She finished. Twice. Once on top, once with me behind her over the arm of the sofa, the cat watching in disgust. The second time I came with her, groaning into her neck.
“Next Tuesday,” she said, breathless. “Cheaper curry.”
Ending 15 of 25: Tuesday Curry. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.