I sat uneasily down at the table Jeffrey had set out. I was glad he saw the promise in our relationship, and cared to invest in it, but there was no sense denying the tension we’d been feeling lately and no amount of candle light or brie was going to cure that. I’m a romantic woman, but I’m not weak-minded.
Nothing on the table was cheap – not the food, not the dishes, not the appointments. Jeffrey was making his big play. Even the wine was probably more expensive than the payments on the motor scooter who used to get to work and back.
The wine.
I frowned.
Jeffrey had a hearty goblet full before him. I had half as much wine in my glass. Was he trying to get himself drunk or to keep me sober because he was going to ask me to drive myself to my own apartment tonight after dinner?
I picked at the food on my plate, adoring the atmosphere created by Jeffrey’s candles, but wishing they afforded more opportunity to see what on earth I was eating. The flame light danced in the ruby liquid that filled Jeffrey’s glass. Near my plate, it glared off the crystal and barely glinted off the surface.
Honestly. Was this his way of telling me I didn’t know when to stop drinking? Or was he simply acknowledging that I rarely finished a glass of wine anyway and demonstrating how well he knew me.
Neither of us spoke. We ate. We drank water. We did not attempt conversation, and we did not touch our wine. I had tried to tell myself that lately we had just become comfortable with moments of silence. A lot of things were left unsaid in that comfort.
When we’d finished eating, I stared through the orange glow at Jeffrey. He smiled, toasted me with his wine glass and then sat it down, unsipped. My face deadpan, I toasted him back and drained my glass in one large swallow.
Most people have a canine, a feline, or a gamine to greet them upon returning home from work each day.
I, on the other hand, am most often greeted by disaster. And today was no different.
The mess that lay before me kicked off the eye twitch. Keys in hand, I cautiously stepped into the apartment.
I scrutinized the hallway console before depositing my Marc Jacobs drawstring with a thunk.
A soggy cardboard box, from Orlando’s no doubt, was sprawled open on the coffee table. Half a pie sat in a cheesy oil slick. Lunch or dinner? From the looks of the petrified pepperoni, most likely breakfast. Hold it...an empty box of Krispy Kremes passed out on the love seat. That was breakfast.
Arms held out to the side, I did a slow three-sixty in the living room, mimicking Dorothy’s awe. Then embarked on a stroll along my very own yellow brick road of chaos.
Wii paraphernalia littered the sofa. And the floor. And the flat screen armoire. Twelve Coke cans adorned end tables like Christmas candles.
In the doorway to the kitchen, pristine white socks cozied up next to black Chucks - size 12. Under the bistro table, black motorcycle boots - size 13. Throughout the kitchen, a visual that would send Merry Maids hightailing it.
I sank onto a barstool at the counter, shoved aside...I didn’t want to know... and laid my cheek on the cool tile.
Roommates. What in the world was I doing living with these two boneheads? Video game developers with more brains than sense.
“Hey, Tess.” Ryan’s minty breath tickled my ear.
“How was work, baby?” Sam’s strong fingers massaged my neck.
I sat uneasily down at the table Jeffrey had set out. I was glad he saw the promise in our relationship, and cared to invest in it, but there was no sense denying the tension we’d been feeling lately and no amount of candle light or brie was going to cure that. I’m a romantic woman, but I’m not weak-minded.
ReplyDeleteNothing on the table was cheap – not the food, not the dishes, not the appointments. Jeffrey was making his big play. Even the wine was probably more expensive than the payments on the motor scooter who used to get to work and back.
The wine.
I frowned.
Jeffrey had a hearty goblet full before him. I had half as much wine in my glass. Was he trying to get himself drunk or to keep me sober because he was going to ask me to drive myself to my own apartment tonight after dinner?
I picked at the food on my plate, adoring the atmosphere created by Jeffrey’s candles, but wishing they afforded more opportunity to see what on earth I was eating. The flame light danced in the ruby liquid that filled Jeffrey’s glass. Near my plate, it glared off the crystal and barely glinted off the surface.
Honestly. Was this his way of telling me I didn’t know when to stop drinking? Or was he simply acknowledging that I rarely finished a glass of wine anyway and demonstrating how well he knew me.
Neither of us spoke. We ate. We drank water. We did not attempt conversation, and we did not touch our wine. I had tried to tell myself that lately we had just become comfortable with moments of silence. A lot of things were left unsaid in that comfort.
When we’d finished eating, I stared through the orange glow at Jeffrey. He smiled, toasted me with his wine glass and then sat it down, unsipped. My face deadpan, I toasted him back and drained my glass in one large swallow.
Most people have a canine, a feline, or a gamine to greet them upon returning home from work each day.
ReplyDeleteI, on the other hand, am most often greeted by disaster. And today was no different.
The mess that lay before me kicked off the eye twitch. Keys in hand, I cautiously stepped into the apartment.
I scrutinized the hallway console before depositing my Marc Jacobs drawstring with a thunk.
A soggy cardboard box, from Orlando’s no doubt, was sprawled open on the coffee table. Half a pie sat in a cheesy oil slick. Lunch or dinner? From the looks of the petrified pepperoni, most likely breakfast. Hold it...an empty box of Krispy Kremes passed out on the love seat. That was breakfast.
Arms held out to the side, I did a slow three-sixty in the living room, mimicking Dorothy’s awe. Then embarked on a stroll along my very own yellow brick road of chaos.
Wii paraphernalia littered the sofa. And the floor. And the flat screen armoire. Twelve Coke cans adorned end tables like Christmas candles.
In the doorway to the kitchen, pristine white socks cozied up next to black Chucks - size 12. Under the bistro table, black motorcycle boots - size 13. Throughout the kitchen, a visual that would send Merry Maids hightailing it.
I sank onto a barstool at the counter, shoved aside...I didn’t want to know... and laid my cheek on the cool tile.
Roommates. What in the world was I doing living with these two boneheads? Video game developers with more brains than sense.
“Hey, Tess.” Ryan’s minty breath tickled my ear.
“How was work, baby?” Sam’s strong fingers massaged my neck.
I sighed.
A little saucy there, Deb. :)
ReplyDeleteYou know it, Nevets! *wink* Yours inspired me to go for a different angle on the relationship theme. haha
ReplyDelete