The kitchen was warm from the oven behind him and he dropped his work jacket onto the floor. He grabbed my hips, planting warm kisses on my collarbone, then my throat, whispering in that warning tone of his all the things he was going to do to me.
His jacket suddenly buzzed and wailed; the sound of a Wookie’s cry.
Greg stopped, his lips still puckered against mine. He cracked an eyelid and met my gaze. The phone buzzed again.
“Shit.”
He turned from me, leaving me on the counter in wait.
Greg answered the phone and began to pace. I knew exactly who was calling.
“Oh shit. That’s tonight? Are you serious?”
There were some muffled words on the other end as Greg’s body language shifted, his shoulders growing tense.
“Do we really need to - No, no, I know I said I’d do it.” He shot me a warning glance. “Alright, I’ll meet him there.”
He blew through the living room, hanging up his phone as he went.
“I’m sorry,” he said from down the hall. “God fucking damn it, I’m sorry.”
I hopped off the counter, snatched the envelope from the floor and followed, only to find him pulling his suit from our closet.
“What’re you doing?”
He shot me a glare. “Getting dressed for a fucking Chamber of Commerce dinner, some fuck all thing. I don’t even know. Mitchell needs me to meet Terry Sha -”
“Why can’t he do it?”
“Why can’t he do fucking anything, Patricia? I don’t know.”
Normally I would be upset. Normally, I might give him a hard time, simply because I needed him to know how disappointed I was. Tonight, was different.
“You don’t have to go.”
“Stop.” Greg took a breath. “Sweetheart, please. I don’t mean to be a dick right now, but I’m fucking fuming. And I’m rocking a god damn hard on now, to boot.”
I fought to hide a chuckle. “No, I mean it. You don’t have to -”
“God damn it, where is my fucking tie?”
I stood by the door watching him. He was in a state, one of those pressure cooker moods of his that would end in raised voices and a door being slammed. I could fight through it, make him hear me, but instead I let him stew. He bent over the dresser drawer, pulling a well-worn grey t-shirt from inside. He tossed it onto the bed beside his pressed white shirt and suit jacket. Though he was getting dolled up, he still hadn’t taken off his jeans or flannel shirt, somewhat disheveled from a day of work. If I knew Greg, he wanted to curl into a ball of writhing limbs and kisses as much as I did, but he had responsibilities, and he wouldn’t let me tell him otherwise.
He yanked another drawer out, then another. “I don’t want to fucking go,” he said.
I sighed. “Then don’t.”
He slumped into the chair by the bed, snatched up a rolled pair of socks then leaned back, running his hands through his dark hair. He stripped off his shirt, then he pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, and exhaled.
“And I need to fucking shower.”
I went for our closet to find his tie. There were two options at the fore, a bright red paisley, and a powder blue. He hated the paisley one, so I tossed it to him. I took a moment to look at him, his head leaning back, his pale chest bared to me as he slung his arms at his sides, giving an exaggerated groan of disdain. His shoulders were the widest part of him, his chest sparsely covered in tiny straight hairs that I played at when we lay in bed together. He sat there silent, his eyes closed. I took only a moment to decide.
I set the envelope on my nightstand and moved to the back of his chair to take his hands. He started at the sudden touch, craning to look back at me. I pulled his hands back to the wooden slats of the chair and wrapped the bright red abomination of a tie around his wrists.
“What are you doing, woman?”
“Nothing,” I said, looping the tie around his other wrist before tying the first knot.