Being with Emma, it kind of feels like putting your hands under hot water after you’ve just been in freezing weather for a couple of hours. It’s the surprising sensation of feeling something after being anesthetized for so long. Right now, it just hurts. Maybe in time, after I’ve gotten used to the warmth, it’ll start to feel like something else, but right now, it just hurts.
Chapter Eleven
The Backslide
Emma
It’s been three weeks since Damian broke up with me, and as funny as it might sound, I’m still not sure where I stand with him.
The breakup itself was a clear enough signal, but let’s just say there have been a few peculiarities to the situation that have kept the question alive.
“Good morning,” Damian says, and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
Yeah, like him being naked in my bed after spending the night.
“You know,” I tell him, “one of these days, you’re going to have to make an honest woman out of me.”
“I think it might be a little soon to talk about marriage,” he says.
“I’m not talking about marriage. I’m just saying that we’re technically still broken up,” I tell him. “Really, I don’t think I’m so much a dishonest woman as I am a confused woman.”
I reach under the covers and slide my hand down his body, between his legs.
“See?” I ask. “This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen with exes, so are we fuck buddies, are we in a relationship, what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“You know,” I tell him. “I could be pretty pissed off that you broke up with me.”
“I didn’t break up with you,” he says. “Wait—yeah, I did. I really need that coffee.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “you do.”
He’s still looking at me, though.
“You don’t expect me to make it for you, do you?” I ask.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he says.
“So, what,” I laugh, “every time you want me to do something, you’re not going to bother asking, you’re just going to give me the puppy dog eyes?”
“If it works,” he says. “If not, I’ve got backup plans.”
“Get your own coffee,” I tell him, and throw the covers over my head.
He’s still not moving.
I don’t really care whether or not he has coffee, but having been presented with the expectation of hot coffee in a pot, I’m starting to crave a cup myself.
I pull the covers back down and he’s just lying there, staring at me.
“What?” I ask. “I already told you I’m not making you coffee right now.”
“I just think you’re pretty, that’s all,” he says.
Pretty’s not a bad thing to be called, but it is a strange option considering all the alternatives.
“Thanks?” I ask.