“I’m in the camp that doesn’t want their junk anywhere near knives, forks, chopping blocks, meat tender
izers, bigger knives, or salad tongs. They say most accidents happen in the home; well, that’s one accident I’m doing everything in my power to prevent,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, “I was right about you.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You’re a freak,” I answer, and take another sip of my water.
The stress of the day coupled with the exertion of the last half hour and topped with a good portion of that vodka bottle all seem to land on me at once, and as I take one last sip of water and set it on the nightstand, I close my eyes.
“I’m just going to rest for a minute if that’s okay with you,” I tell him.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I tell him. “I want you right here with your arms around me.”
This is the problem with knowing my limits when I drink: I always remember too much.
Damian put his arms around me about eight hours ago and they’re still there, encircling me. For an instant, it feels great. It feels like something I’ve been waiting for, and I’m just a moderate hangover away from feeling complete when the gravity of what happened last night finally takes hold.
The sex complicates things enough, but the passing out after crying after coming bit? That’s not really the way I wanted last night to go.
When he says, “Good morning,” I nearly jump out of my skin. Maybe I would have, if Damian’s arms weren’t still around me.
“Good morning,” I answer back.
Then there’s nothing.
I mean, absolutely nothing.
We have nothing to say to each other after last night.
Yeah, alcohol was a brilliant idea, Emma; really A-list thinking there.
“So…” he says.
“Yeah…” I respond.
“Do you want me to sneak out of here or should I go out there and start fixing up some breakfast?” he asks.
I wonder: if I told him that I’d like him to fix some breakfast and then leave, would he do it?
“Whatever would make you the most comfortable,” I tell him.
I think I may have unwittingly put us within striking distance of having the relationship talk and it’s way too fucking early, both in the morning and in the relationship for that to happen right now. He may have opened the door by asking me how I wanted him to leave, but I pulled us the rest of the way through it by letting him know the ball is in his court on that one.
Being noncommittal has managed to lead directly to a question of increasing commitment.
No matter how he responds to my statement, it’s going to tell me something about his desired level of commitment, and then I’m going to feel like I’ve got to reciprocate, and then he’s going to ask me how we got from the manner in which he leaves my apartment to me telling him my views on the modern relationship, optional allowances, and accessories of said relationship and where I fit on the spectrum between “I want to have your children” and “You can fuck me, but don’t look me in the eyes and no kissing on the lips.”
Right now the answer is that I don’t have an answer. It’s still way too early to tell where this is going to go, and I haven’t even begun to shuffle through the various and often contradictory emotions I’m feeling right now.
“Why don’t I pop into the bathroom and then we can figure it out from there,” he says.
Well, that’s just great. He doesn’t want to tip his hand before he has an idea where I’m at.
Clever, Mr. Jones, very clever.