Cold Fusion Extract

Here’s a little extract from a book I’ve just recently read. (Review is on it’s way) this extract should tickle those taste buds. It’s writtien by the talented Karl Drinkwater. Who is slowly starting to become one of favourite writers.

 

Alex decided the stakes were high enough to justify one of his advanced psychological theories. He knew all women liked cats. People liked things that resembled themselves. Therefore applying some of the rules for interacting with cats to the reality of interacting with women could only help.
Most rules were straightforward:
Admire their grace.
Don’t interrupt them when they’re grooming.
Back off if they hiss.
Don’t approach cats, let them come to you.
This needed to look natural.
He turned a corner in the college, deftly avoiding a group of Access Ed students who weren’t looking where they were going, and snatched some handouts from the cluttered office he shared with the other part-time lecturers. They really did need photocopying for a science group. He rushed back to the small staff-only photocopier room.
Anne wasn’t there yet.
He started the job running with a few deft button presses. A whirr. A hum. A frown-making bang. But it was off. Paper flowed smoothly at warp factor four. This boded well. The machine was tamed.
The door opened. Anne was frowning at him with an armful of paper. “Going to be long?”
“No. Nearly done.” He grabbed his copies and moved aside. “Your hair’s nice.”
“Hmmph.”
She hadn’t hissed yet.
“Sorry about before, Anne.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re still not happy, are you?”
She slammed her papers down on a table. “Do you have any idea of how angry I am?”
The machine started to make grinding noises. He spared it a glance then looked back at Anne. “Pretty angry?”
“Pretty damn fucking angry.” She moved closer. “It’s been brewing in my mind: where’d this come from? I knew it couldn’t be another woman. That would require some sign of life from you. Then I realised – you never loved me. You just strung me along, wasting my time. I’ve never been anything to you apart from a habit.” She glared a challenge at him.
“That’s not true. More than a habit.”
“That good, eh?”
“Yes!”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh.” Thankfully the grinding eased down to a wheeze. Paper still flowed.
“It makes sense now. Like you living at home. I fucking hated that. There was no privacy if I visited you, like being a teenager. That’s you all over.”
“You’re angry. Now’s obviously not a good time to talk. I was thinking, maybe we could meet up later, talk then, clear the air. When you’re calmer. Do you want to suggest a time?”
She looked shocked. “How about never? Is never good for you?”
Clunking from the copier, more grinding, it was difficult to ignore it.
“But remember the good times we had?”
“No. Funnily enough, I don’t.”
“Well I do. I thought you would want to patch this up?”
“Don’t believe everything you think. That applies to lots of people, but particularly you. Grow up, Alex, it’s over. You’re an emotionally immature teenager trapped in a man’s body. I bet you’ve still got Homer Simpson socks in your drawer.”
“Bart.”
“Right. Fuck off, Alex.”
She stormed away without collecting her papers.

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