Oh, she wasn't so bad off, she supposed, if she could only think about it intelligently. She had friends, both male and female, and she certainly got around enough. Of course, there was always the divorce stigma, with every man assured in his mind that she was a certain lay. The fact of the matter was that she had slept with no man since Jeff… none whatever, but sometimes, the desire to be made love to, the sheer, raw, sexual craving of her lush young body nearly drove her mad. Yet, she knew that the mere sight of a man standing naked before her, or lying against her, his bard fleshy rod touching her soft body would immediately instigate the old rigor mortis… she would freeze like an icicle. God, what an affliction.
Well, she had her writing, she thought, plodding slowly back to her chair. It had really become her whole life. Success was all she sought now… that illusive goddess, success. And her book was good; she felt certain of that. The rejections were not indicative of its quality. Editors were forced to turn down many good works for numerous other reasons.
Why didn't Karl Fletcher call? He must've read it by this time. Perhaps, she should call him. Why not? Damnit, that's just what she would do, she decided determinedly. She would shower and dress and give him a call at his office after nine. Yes, she would…
She arose suddenly and started for the bath. Enroute, she stuck her tiny pink tongue out at her typewriter, then smiled to herself. She was beginning to feel better. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad day after all.