I grimaced as I walked through the door; Tim's beer instantly overwhelmed my nostrils. I was sick of this. I let my bag slump to the floor; I shrugged off my heavy jacket, and let my heels click against the hard wood floor.

I looked down at my cleavage, which was, for a woman of my age and job status, impressive, considering I had neither the time nor wealth to have any sort of boob job. I bit my lip, looked up at Tim, and picked up my lighter. The packet of cigarettes sat happily next to my lighter, waiting to be used. I plucked out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of my worn out old thumb – I inhaled the sweet intoxicating scent.

I walked over to him, prowled as I eyed my pray...his eyes flickered from the ball game to me and back within a matter of seconds. I sighed angrily, rolling my eyes; I began to pace closer, not even attempting to hide my anger.

I started to impatiently unbutton my cheap cotton-polyester top, slowly pulling on my cigarette, and crawled onto his lap, my legs perched on top of his all so suddenly plump sausage like legs. I ran my hand teasingly up his leg, and took another pull.

"Fuck off, Susan I'm not in the mood." I had the mind to punch him straight in the bollocks. Instead I simply blew smoke into his eyes – my heart leapt with small and cheap satisfaction as I watched his eye twitch as it tried to re-adjust it's-self to the TV screen.
"Susan, don't be a bitch." His tone wasn't even sharp, sarcastic, or otherwise. He wasn't bothered anymore. He didn't care about me, he didn't have the patience to pretend he did; this man was all worn out, work had worn him down and life itself pressed its constant routine upon us.

"Kiss me?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

He did nothing, and so, I stumped the cigarette out on the worn out material of the arm chair, and pressed my hands firmly against his shoulders, leaning in for just a second of passion.

"Susan, ugh," he looked repulsed, "you stink, get, get off!"

He pushed me firmly backwards, with more force than necessary – I gave up and fell back willingly, steadying myself on my heels, arms flailing.

"I put up with your fucking habits, put up with mine!" I yelled.
He looked at me for a few seconds, and looked back at the TV.

I sighed, shrugged, and headed for the bedroom.

I rummaged through the little draws I had and pulled everything with me, collecting everything and anything I wanted on the bed in a pile of chaos.

Nothing I desired lay in the living room/kitchen or bathroom.

I clawed at the suitcase under the bed, as if I was clawing for life itself – although in some ways I was – and jammed everything I wanted in there. Everything I needed. Everything I had.

Tim's ears had somehow pricked up as I began to lug the suitcase towards the front door to our shitty apartment.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" He asked, his stance weak – a bottle of beer in his hand.

"I'm going, Tim." I stated.

"Yes, Susan, I see that!" He began to shout the end of the sentence, and his breath became short intakes, his face growing apparently more upset by the minute. "Susan, why? What...how can I make this better, what can I do?"
I laughed, "I think it's a little late for that," I breathed as I lit another cigarette and inhaled. I thought for a second, and unzipped my suitcase, pulled out my favourite shirt, and practically ripped off my poor excuse for a work shirt. I pulled it over my head, cigarette sucked against my moist lips; and tugged at the material to fit over my hips.

Zipped back up the suitcase, and began to walk closer to the door, my hand now on the door handle.

His begs became more apparent.
"Suzy, you don't understand, I need you...I was just in a bad mood! I'll change."
Life had never felt so satisfying.

"What can I do?" He emphasized each word, with a hand gesture, beer spilling as the can jerked with his movements.

I pressed my lips against the cigarette, pulled on it, the sweet decadent scent soothing me; resting my elbow on my hip, and pushing down on the handle, I said:
" I just want a guy who can make me scream."