Perfectly Adequate

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“No. Just really hoping I get to see your secret social media posts.”

She looks at her watch, narrowing her eyes before scraping her teeth along her bottom lip.

“We should go.” I release her from my hold.

“I want to get my walk in. That’s all. You can stay.”

“We can walk with you.” The second the words come out, I know better. I feel her body stiffen even without touching her. And her face contorts into a nervous grimace. “On second thought, we’re going to head home.”

Dorothy makes no attempt to argue, no attempt to make it seem like walking with her would be okay. That is my lesson today. Dorothy needs time alone. It isn’t personal toward anyone else. It’s her personality. More of a good thing is just that … more. Not necessarily better. So even if I crave more time with her, I need to wait. I want the desire to be mutual. The last thing I can handle at this point is having feelings for another woman who wants to get as far away from me as possible.

“Go walk. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to give him a five-minute countdown. He does better if he knows his time is almost up instead of me grabbing him and hauling him out the door.”

“Yeah. Sure. Absolutely. Stay as long as you need to.”

“Thanks.” I slide my hand around her neck to the back of her head and pull her to me for a slow kiss.

She steadies herself by holding my arms. I peek past her to see if Roman is still entranced by the Xbox. When I determine that he is, I slide my other hand to her face to deepen the kiss. Dorothy used to stiffen at this point, like it bothered her to swap saliva or let our tongues touch. But things have changed, and right now she seems perfectly willing and even a bit eager to let our kiss build into something that might require a bucket of cold water to extinguish.

I pull away first because I want to keep her wanting me. And that sucks. Julie stifled my confidence in a way that feels permanent. Will I always wait for the other shoe to drop? Will I bring paranoia with me to every relationship? Will I become the needy person in the relationship who requires constant affirmation that everything is fine? That everything is good?

Dear god … I hope not.

“Thank you for buying Roman that game.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’ll buy him all the games he wants.”

“Well, let’s start with just one.”

“Yeah, don’t want it to turn into an addiction like it has for me.”

“You’re addicted to Xbox?”

“Xbox. Netflix. Certain music. I have a lot of obsessions. If you’re lucky, you might become one of them.”

I swallow hard and clear my throat. “Roman, five minutes, and then we’re heading home, buddy.”

“Six minutes. Listen … listen, Daddy. Six minutes.”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure when and how he learned to negotiate, but the kid is hardcore.”

“Hmm … six minutes. Just enough time to show you my room.” She pulls me toward her bedroom.

“Stay there, Roman. I’ll be just around the corner.”

“K, Daddy.”

Dorothy softly closes the door to her bedroom and leans back against the door. I glance around at the massive amounts of books and journals.

“Do you have HPV?”

“What?” I turn back toward her just as she’s shimmying out of her panties.

“Dorothy …”

“Yes or no.”

“Um … no. Why do you—”

“I don’t either.” She folds her panties and sets them on the edge of one of the book shelves before leaning back against the door, one hand on the handle. “Kiss me.”

Roman is definitely down to five minutes, maybe four, not that he is keeping time. But the fact remains that my three-year-old child is ten feet away from the door at Dorothy’s back. She wets her lips, and I can’t say no, so I kiss her. She kisses me back for two seconds before turning her head to the side to break the kiss.

“Lower,” she says in a thick voice that I barely recognize.

I kiss her neck, inhaling the lingering scent of coconut on her skin.

“Lower …”

I kiss along the open area of her button-down shirt, just above her cleavage.

“Lower …”

I start to unbutton her shirt.

“Low…” she fists my hair and pushes my head down “…er.”

My knees hit the ground. Dorothy releases my hair and grabs her skirt, gathering it up an inch at a time. She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes close as her lower lip remains trapped between her teeth as if the need is almost painful.

The moment my tongue breaches the apex of her legs, she grips the door handle and seethes, biting her lip harder as her hips buck away from the door. I know how this will go down—literally and figuratively. I will give her the best oral sex she’s ever had. The six-minute timer will go off in my head, or if we are incredibly unlucky, a little fist will bang against the door and try to push the lever handle down. She will slide her skirt down like nothing happened. The door will open and my painfully hard erection will bust right out of my jeans and jab my kid in the eye.