Goddesses Don't Get Sick Read Online Free PDF Page A

one in her heart as she tried to stop thinking about the evening.
    Turning off the light, Angela buried her head under a pillow and closed her eyes.

SIX.
    ANGELA SLEPT WELL INTO THE NEXT DAY. Waking up in the late afternoon, she wandered through the house to find it empty of people, but full of mess. What with the partygoers having long since woken up and staggered home, and her roommates presumably at work, it seemed like Angela was the one left to clean. With a small but resigned sigh, she moved through to the kitchen and began to clear up what few dishes remained unbroken.
    Hours later, the house finally clean and dusk not far off, Angela opened the front door to take out the trash. She stopped short to find a bouquet of red roses waiting on the doorstep. Frowning in confusion as she wondered if she’d missed the delivery man, Angela bent down to inspect the bouquet. Finding a card stapled to the cellophane, Angela tore it off and unfolded it, looking for an addressee.
    Goddess, it began, but Angela didn’t read any further. Ripping up the card, she added it to one of the trash bags and left them at the gate, before kicking the roses off the doorstep and shutting the door on them.
    Picking up a half filled bottle of bourbon left over from the night before, Angela stormed to her room, grabbing a pillow and hurling it against the wall. She stood there for a moment, seething, before she took off the feather that lay around her neck.
    Looking at it for a moment, a small part of her protested, not wanting to let it go. Shaking her head, Angela ignored the naked feeling around her neck and placed the feather back in its box. Curling up on her bed, Angela opened the bottle and proceeded to see if one really could drown their sorrows in alcohol.
    It appeared that she couldn’t, but at least the unconscious stupor that fell shortly after came without dreams. Small mercy for Angela, but better than nothing.

SEVEN.
    SHARON STOOD AT THE FRONT DOOR of Angela’s home and looked out at the front lawn, now littered with discarded bouquets of red and white roses that had appeared at the door every morning since the party; over four weeks ago now. The roses had lasted surprisingly long, and some of them were only just now starting to wilt and die. The effect was rather astounding; a sea of red and white that caused a lot of passersby to slow their pace and gawk.
    Angela’s two roommates had tried to ask her about the roses. Once. The glare they had received was so black, they both wisely decided the curiosity was not worth it.
    After all, curiosity did kill the cat. But satisfaction brought it back. And Sharon believed more in the proverbial cat’s satisfaction than its curiosity.
    “Ange? Don’t you think this has been going on long enough?”
    Angela looked up from the textbook she had been reading at the kitchen table. Her eyes narrowed briefly, before she snorted and went back to her book.
    “I think he’s sorry, hon,” Sharon closed the door and moved to sit across her friend at the table. “I think he made that point clear weeks ago.”
    “Well then, if he really is sorry he can tell me in person,” Angela spoke light-heartedly, refusing to look up from her book as she turned a page. “I want a real conversation with him. Not a bunch of flowers with a note every day.”
    Sharon looked at the small pile of torn cards in the rubbish bin and coughed into her fist.
    “Has it occurred to you to maybe read the notes he’s been sending with the flowers?” she asked.
    “What’s the point? I bet they all say the same thing. ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ blah-de-fucking-blah.”
    “Okay, I understand you’re angry, but still. What if the notes say something important? What if he’s asking you to meet him somew—” Sharon jumped as Angela suddenly slammed her book shut and glared at her.
    “I don’t give a fuck what he has to say in those notes,” she hissed. “If he wants to see me, then he