“Good morning. How’d you sleep?” I ask.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept so peacefully.”
“I’m glad,” I tell her. “Hey, it occurs to me that we don’t really know that much about each other.”
“Yeah,” she says and waits for me to continue. “Oh, that was your point.”
I scoff. “Okay,” I tell her and start to sit up. “I get it.”
“No, no, no,” she says, with a bit of a chortle as she pushes me back down. “We don’t know that much about each other. I guess I just figured that maybe we could start on that today. Do you have to work?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Later, though. I don’t have to be in until noon.”
“That’s right,” she says, patting my chest. “You’re a chef.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
I’m trying to estimate how bad the fallout is going to be if I tell her that I have no idea what she does for a living, but she catches on before I’ve got any hard figures.
“I’m a social worker,” she says. “I mostly work with kids and teenagers.”
“Yeah? That’s got to be pretty rewarding.”
“It is,” she says. “It’s one of those few things in my life where I really feel like I’m making a difference for someone, you know? It’s not all Polaroids and hugs, though. I deal with a lot of bad shit on a day-to-day basis.”
“I bet.”
“That said,” she continues, “Every once in a while, I’ll come across someone who’s just in that receptive place and you wouldn’t believe how even a child can turn things around when they want to.”
“You know—maybe this is going to sound rude, but—”
“That’s not what you expected?” she asks. “It’s not what a lot of people expect, but it’s what I do. I love it.”
“Yeah, but you’re—I don’t know how to say this without being a dick,” I say.
She laughs. “It’s all right. I’m pretty sure whatever you’re going to say, I’ve heard a lot worse.”
“You’re into some pretty kinky shit.”
She lets out a gut laugh.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound, and it paints her as a completely different person than the nymphomaniac that I’ve been fucking for the past month or so. The laugh softens her.
“I am,” she says, “but I don’t take that to work with me.”
“Yeah, but—I don’t know, aren’t you ever nervous that you’re going to be doing it in one of the paddle boats in Central Park and have one of the kids you work with see you?”
“That’s why I don’t go to Central Park,” she says.
“Yeah, but what about the top of the building?” I ask. “We’ve been up there a few times now and, except for last night, every time, we’ve had an audience.”
“Parents keep their kids away from the windows in the city,” she says, “especially in this neighborhood. You never know what you’re going to see or who’s going to catch you looking at them.”
“You’ve really put a lot of thought into all this, haven’t you?”
She laughs again and my trepidation starts to thaw.
“I guess you could say that. Look,” she continues, “there’s a way for me to get all the, in your words, kinky shit out of my system without putting my job or any young eyes in jeopardy. Sometimes it takes a bit of creativity, like last night at the stadium. It actually made me pretty nervous being out in the middle of everything like that, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Seriously,” she says. “Did you ever bother noticing how I was making sure that you were covered at all times from an outside viewpoint? I mean, sure, someone might have walked up and saw my head in your lap, but I’m sure you would’ve noticed before they saw too much of anything.”
“You know, I was kind of worried about this,” I laugh, “but I think this just might be the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“Take it easy there, Tonto,” she says. “We’re dating exclusively, but that doesn’t mean we’re married. Pull it back a bit, will you?”
She’s smiling.
This is the first time I’ve ever really seen her smile in the daylight.
The woman I went to bed with isn’t the woman I woke up with, and for once, that’s not a bad thing.
“So, you wanna fuck and get some coffee?”
Or, you know, maybe she’s the same woman and I’m just getting to know her better. That’s probably closer to the truth.
She kisses my chest and I feel something that I’d completely forgotten.
I feel cared for.
She lifts her head, asking, “Or do you want to do the coffee thing first?”
I chuckle.
“Maybe some coffee,” I tell her. “Otherwise, I don’t know that I’m going to make a good showing.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?” she asks.
I’m about to tell her the truth, but the look in her eyes is so innocent, so—what’s the word?—concerned and I can’t bear to hurt her feelings.
“I slept all right,” I lie. “I think I’m just getting used to having another person in bed with me.”
“I’m in bed with you all the time,” she teases.
“Not sleeping,” I tease back.
“All right, I’ll go get some coffee on,” she says, actually going as far as to cover herself as she reaches over the side of the bed for her bathrobe.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s cold,” she says. “I’m used to your body heat. I’ve been sleeping with it all night.”
This is what a relationship feels like. I almost can’t remember feeling it before.
It’s not a bad feeling.
Wrigley’s hair is disheveled and hilarious as she walks out the door on her way to the kitchen, and I’m starting to wonder what I thought was so scary about settling down for a while.
I don’t know if things are going to work out or not, but this is probably the best morning I’ve had in a few years.
“So,” I call through the open doorway, “what time do you go to work today?”
“I’m off today,” she calls back. “And will you get your lazy ass out here? I’m freezing.”
I smile to myself. This is quite the turnaround from last night.
Last night, she was storming out of my rental car because I’d only suggested that we go out on a real date and when she got in that cab… I guess I don’t really need to go back over that right now.
Last night was a very different world with very different people in it.
I’m up and out of bed, morning wood kicking in, though I haven’t slept, so I don’t bother with pants. I just check the top drawer of her dresser for a towel. We tend to go through quite a few of them on any given occasion.
Wrapped up, but hardly hiding anything, I walk out of the bedroom and find Wrigley putting bread in her toaster.
“Hey there,” I say as I walk up, wrapping my arms around her.
“Well good morning to both of you,” she laughs. “Did you change your mind on coffee?”
“Nah,” I answer.
“So, there is something I think we should probably talk about,” she says. “I don’t want to put it all on the line or anything, but I just want to know where you stand.”
“Okay.”
“Your roommate,” she says, “what is the deal with the two of you?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, the first night we got together, you shouted her name as you were coming. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging or anything.”
“Yeah, didn’t you shout your name about that same time?”
“Yeah, but whatever,” she says, leaning back into me. “I just need to know what kind of relationship the two of you have. Like are you just roommates, are you roommates that fuck, are you hung up on her, what?”
“We’re just roommates,” I tell her. “We’ve had a near miss or two—actually, now that I think about it, just the one, but it was kind of drawn out—but no, nothing’s ever happened.”
We’re in a relationship and people in relationships are supposed to be honest with each other, right?
“Okay,” she says. “You’re being totally honest, right? I’m not going to impale you with a meat thermometer if you tell me the two of you have bumped uglies.”
“You know, that’s one of my least favorite terms for it,” I laugh.