Didn’t Get a Happy Ending

As I was relaxing at the Starbucks and looking at frolicsome people passing-by serenely, a scornful face was bobbing up in the crowd. It was Ramon. As soon as his eyes located on me, he marched forward me cholerically and growled, “Fucking Jamaican cunt rejected to perform her final duty. I didn’t get a happy ending!”

He lapsed into reverie for a while and went on, “But, bitch, believe me, she is fucking hot. In fact, she is some miraculous blend of European beauty with Latin beauty, a diamond that rarely occurs in the world. Such a cunt is out of a million, you know, ha-ha-ha…. By the way, let’s go to Om, bitch, my friends are waiting for us.”

Patricia called Ramon numerous times while we were rejoicing in the night life at Om. But he refused to pick up his mobile phone. He just wanted to enjoy the moment to the maximum without any distractions. This was the typical of his behavior. He knew beforehand that if he told her that he was in a bar, she would be angry, protest against his demeanor, and request him to come back to the apartment forthwith. He did not want his self-indulgence to be spoiled by her remonstration; he preferred to face the music after the merriment was over.

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