The Matchmaker's Choice: A Lesbian Romance

jealous. At least my couch lets me focus when I sit on it. I can

search through profiles for hours. This couch? This couch

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would have me enjoying a nap in under ten minutes. Maybe

it’s a good thing mine is uncomfortable.

Steph brings two mugs of tea, but her hands shake so

bad that the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the sides. I’m

glad when she sets them down on the coffee table, though I

don’t see any coasters anywhere and it makes me slightly

horrified to think about the marks that are going to be left on

the dark wood surface. I don’t see any as it is, but maybe this

isn’t her normal behavior.

No, this seems far from normal. This isn’t the

easygoing, focused, down to earth Steph that I’ve met before.

This Steph sits on the other end of the couch and tucks

her legs up under her. She keeps one arm wrapped around

them. Her lips purse and she studies the floor right in front of

the couch. I know she’s not really seeing it. She’s somewhere

else. Thinking about something else. I just need to wait and let

her tell me what it is that she called me over here for.

I’m not usually known to have a ton of patience, but

this time, I know that staying silent is better than saying

something that might get in the way of her telling me what’s

really on her mind. The quiet in the room wraps around us.

The house is still. I live in an apartment, so things are always

loud to some degree. There’s always someone above me,

below me, or beside me making some kind of noise, so the

silence seems louder somehow.

“I felt that I owed you—no. That I needed to tell you

that it wasn’t your matches that were the problem,” Steph