A young translator’s honest, funny diary about work, friendship and unexpected attraction. Every entry is free to read online, with a new one each Monday.
Emily's Diary is a romantic story told through the honest, funny entries of a young translator. Between work, her friends and the odd unexpected attraction, Emily is trying to work out what she really wants. A new entry arrives every Monday, and you can start from the first one whenever you like.
My bar counter is finished! I can't believe that just last week I was only dreaming about it, and now I'm writing my diary on it. An off-white matte top and four elegant bar stools with curved backs and pale gray upholstery. I'm bursting with pride. I can't stop looking at it.
What a morning to kick off my vacation! On Monday I got to wake up next to Ben in a glass-walled hideaway overlooking the gorgeous garden of a fabulous house. Once we'd surfaced a little, we took a nice, refreshing shower and then crawled back into bed to make sure the day got off to a proper start. Ben is still a god in bed.
I still can't believe it's over. Not just the job, but this whole week. I'd hoped to finish at a decent hour on Friday. My plan was to call Ben and moan into the phone how badly I wanted him. He'd come racing over, of course, and take me in every corner of the apartment. Instead, at ten to midnight, eyes swollen from crying, I managed to send off the last batch. I was tired, furious, and so sorry for myself that I didn't want anything. Least of all to get undressed.
Until the project wraps up, Ben and I won't see each other, only talk on the phone. A few more days, and the all-nighters, the sleep deprivation and the constant stress will be over. Of course, there had to be one last bit of drama: someone at the telecom operator had miscalculated, so for the final week I’m getting fifty percent more material than we originally agreed on.
Mark says there's no such thing as intuition. According to him, the only people who constantly get bad feelings are the ones who are already "miserable about everything anyway." From that point on, it's no longer some ominous thought tied to a specific event — it's just the usual "self-flagellating nonsense" the person's gotten hooked on. The person, meaning the woman. Men don't complicate their lives like that.
It really does seem like I'm in a real, grown-up relationship. Sure, there's a fairly big age gap between us. I managed to dig up from the contract that he's forty-four. But maybe that's actually for the best. There are happy couples out there with an even bigger gap than ours. Kids and everything.
None of what happened last week matters. Only this: on Wednesday night I gathered every scrap of courage I had and texted Ben.
Last week's insane work pace, the need to prove myself, and no sleep all took their toll: both my eyes got inflamed. I caught one look in the mirror, and that was enough. I promised the sorry wretch staring back at me that I'd leave her alone, not even glance her way.
I went to bed Sunday night with a bad feeling in my gut. I'd worked until three in the morning, and the second I hit send, my chest tightened.
I'd never had a recurring dream before. Definitely not the kind that leaves you waking up drenched in sweat and shaking. I knew someone who got chased through weeks of dreams by a rabbit with an evil grin and a giraffe.