Electric Love

Chapter 1

3am. It had been exactly one year, two months and eight days since shit hit the fan. It was only one year, two months and nine days ago that I was sporting a rather glamorous rock on my left hand. I often cast my mind back to a time when my future seemed so planned out. Oh, how times have changed. I thought back to that day. The day that marked the beginning of the end. Many have compared my current situation to that of Bridget Jones' life; two completely different guys are somehow romantically involved in my life, causing much heartache and commotion. However, this comparison is way off.

The Daniel Cleaver, if you will, of my story, although charming, is an absolute dick. I hate him. Not in a flirtatious, playful kind of way. Just full on hate, and he goes by the name of Alex Palmer. A well-built man of about 5'9, with blonde, rugged surfer hair. Yes, yes, he's as dreamy as he sounds, but don't be fooled by his wondrous facade.

The Mark Darcy of this story is, well. He's just amazing. Unlike the up-tight Colin Firth version, he is someone you only hear about in the movies. He's kind, caring, and is so awkwardly sweet. He goes by the name of Sam Salter. A muscular, yet slim man of about 5'8 with short brunette curls that perfectly compliment his magnificent jawline. You'd cut your hand slapping that face.

It all began on July 18th last year.

"Honey, I'm home!" I called out, a proud grin smacked across my features knowing full-well how cheesy I was being. I did this every evening when I got home from work. I'd grab two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of rosé before swiftly making my entrance into the living room where I would plonk myself on the spot on the sofa right next to Alex. It was all so perfect. But that day, however, was quite different. I was given the afternoon off and decided to surprise Alex with a romantic day for two at home. I came home baring gifts of wine and chocolate, perfect for an evening involving getting cosy on the couch with a couple of movies, not that we ended up watching them. However, when I called out , I got no answer. I placed the goods onto the kitchen countertop, slowly making my way into the living room. There was no Alex to be seen. 'Maybe he's gone out with his mates...' I thought to myself. Although, looking back now, it was very wishful thinking. 'He'll be back soon'.

A few seconds passed. Minutes. Hours. He didn't come home until around 7pm; a half hour before I was due to finish a full day's work. There I was, sat on the sofa, not really suspecting anything at all. But then something caught my attention as an unsuspecting Alex hurried up the staircase. A staircase so perfectly in view from the sofa where I was seated. There, clutched onto the velcro of his back-pack, a luminous pink bra and a smudge of the same shade of pink on the side of his neck. Oh no. No way.

It was only last week I caught a glimpse of a woman whom he worked with, awkwardly staring at him from across the street, only to find him staring back, a somewhat alarmed look very much present on his features. I dismissed it in an instant; I was used to girls gawking at my man, I mean, he was quite a picture.

I could feel my cheeks turn a crimson red. Tears threatening to make an appearance at any moment. Nuh uh. This wasn't happening. 'Perhaps this is just a misunderstanding.' I thought.
'Maybe I'm just jumping to conclusions.' I wasn't, by the way. No matter how much I tried to talk myself out of doing what I did next, I slammed the TV remote on the coffee table. A mighty cracking of plastic and the scattering of batteries rang out through the house, and all of a sudden I could hear the movement upstairs come to a halt. There's no going back now.