Some Assembly Required

By DanaLynne

Junk Love
Mending Wall
The Gypsy Within
Counter Clockwise
Capture
Nightfall
Money Moon
O Negative
Toy Law
No Crib for a Bed
That Train

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469114477

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Copyright © 2009 by DanaLynne.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

Junk Love

*Mending Wall*

*The Gypsy Within*

*CounterClockwise*

*Capture*

*Nightfall*

*Money Moon*

*O Negative*

*Toy Law*

*No Crib for a Bed*

*That Train*

Junk Love

No commitments required. No guarantees. But also, no guilt!

Kill your hunger or thirst for the moment with something sweet, something gooey and delicious. You’ll fall asleep with the feeling of satisfaction, only to wake up hungry again, but hey, that’s life, isn’t it?

If you’re not looking for something nutritious, you’ve definitely come to the right place.

Junk love. That’s what my best friend, Lydia calls it. A temporary fix for a lifelong problem, like eating cookies when what the body demands is a four-course dinner. Snacking when you should be eating.

Junk love available for the taking!

Here are some samples of what’s available out there.

Matthew Marcus, aged twenty-eight, brown hair.

Brown eyes.

Five-eleven.

One-hundred-sixty pounds. Loves fast cars, loud music, and makes the most of every minute. Hates wasting time. Makes quick decisions, and either lives or dies by them.

Or, how about Jonathan Kitridge, d twenty-six, height about five-five, mental age, I’d say about thirteen. He has the attention span to match, so be careful. Thirty days, or ten dates, whichever comes first. After that, you’re on your own—literally.

Watch your hearts!

James Todd Carroll, aged thirty. Likes classical music, books, long bike rides into the country. You’d better exercise before seeing him, both mentally and physically. You’ll need it. He’s fun, but he’s been bruised in the heart, so he’s not looking for anything permanent, just salve for the wounds. Don’t get your hopes up.

Anton Miller. He’s cute, cuddly, and perennially curious. Either don’t sleep, or keep him on a leash, or you’ll lose him.

Greg Martin. You’ve got to be on your toes with him. He’s a PH.D. candidate and he drops obscure references into conversations. You know, about the original Latin names for the different species of butterflies. Now, butterflies are pretty, but who needs to know their original Latin names.

Kevin Locke. He’ll take you for a ride on his motorcycle. He loves the feel of the wind in his hair and the sun on his back. If you go with him, learn to pack light. You won’t be able to carry much more than the basic essentials of life. And buy lots of postcards to let the rest of the world know where you’ve been and where you’re going.

And hold on. It’s a long and sometimes rough ride, but it’s worth it just for the experience of the open road and the view of the desert on a summer night as you’re racing for Las Vegas at eighty-plus.

And then there’s Martin Michaels. Complete opposite. Likes the beach, and that’s about it. Spends any warm day looking for a free space in the sand, a good wave, and the right sun block. (Funny thing is, he never tans. He gets tons of freckles, but never ever tans.) He’ll spend hours in the sand at the water’s edge, making sandcastles, trying to make one the waves won’t eventually destroy.

Once, I think it was on our fourth or fifth date, we came back after three days, and one of his sandcastles was still there—until some kid kicked it down in his rush for the water.

He’ll eventually lose your phone number, forget where you live, and you’ll stop receiving flowers on a weekly basis. But he’s a nice guy if you want his number or address. I have them right here.

Robert Andrew Mitney. Small, about five-two. Energetic. If you’re going to keep up with him, you’ll have to run. He’s always in a hurry. To go to work, or to bed.

Likes old movies of the thirties, even the silents.

If that interests you, here’s his number: nine-five-oh-one-two-three-oh. And don’t be fooled by his answering machine. It may be a woman’s voice you hear, but that’s only his little sister.

McAllister: If you like getting breakfast in bed, this is your guy. Great cook! Waffles! Pancakes—to die for! And his sweet-rolls! Yum, yum, yum!

Of course, he wasn’t worth a damned as a handy man. Couldn’t fix anything. When my car quit—something about the alternator—he just shrugged. Guess he missed that part of his youth. You know, the I’ll fix it If it kills me stage. Screwdrivers, pliers, a simple monkey wrench, are just extra thumbs to Kevin.

But that wasn’t what separated us.

His wife did that trick. Called my apartment while he was there, said she’d had enough of the separation, and could they talk? Five minutes later, he was gone. No phone calls, no letter—not even a postcard or hint of apology. I mean, I knew about the separation, but I though he was moving on, entering a new stage of his life: post-Julia.

Guess not.

Well, he’s gone. Time to move on.

Ashley Wilkes. Don’t tease him about anything related to Gone With The Wind.

No, he’s never dated anyone named Scarlett. No, he’s never even visited the South. And no, he has absolutely no curiosity about the book or