And stop trying to think of me when you know you’re going to end up thinking of him. It’s weird, and I don’t like it.
I imagine my husband ghost-fading away on that last bit of sage advice.
Fuck, I can smell my own arousal, and it makes me wonder what Everett’s arousal smells like. Is his scent light, like mine? Or is it darker, stronger? Is he cut like me, or is he uncircumcised? How would his nuts feel under my palm? Is his taste mellow or bitter? Does he only top, or would he be willing to bottom for a smaller man?
Even with my questions, I already know so many of the answers. I know what it feels like to be held by him. I know the way his hands move across my skin. I know exactly how he would use that same generous attention to detail and, after just a few times in bed together, he would learn my body and give me exactly what I need.
TV night?Psh.
More like torture night.
* * *
A balled-up piece of paper smacks me in the forehead, and I blink, remembering my mildly annoyed lunch companion.
“Ouch,” I deadpan as I glare at Parker.
“Earth to Rafi—where’d you go?”
We’re both sitting on a retaining wall around an old oak tree, and the students are milling about, all of us happy the worst of the summer has broken now that we are well into October.
“Rafi?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
“No shit. You’ve been a space cadet since last week.”
I examine my dodgy-looking sandwich and wrap it back up. I might need to stop by Whataburger on the way home.
“I—what?”
Parker sets aside her perfectly portioned, gorgeously prepared vegetarian lunch and puts her hands on my shoulders.“Whatis going on with you? Should I be worried?”
I shrug her off, not quite able to maintain eye contact. “It’s nothing. Been a busy week.”
Shaking her head and laughing, she contradicts me. “No, it hasn’t. The department doesn’t have any tests, there are no meetings, and two of your classes were canceled so they could finish redoing the ductwork.” She pauses, tapping her lip. “So…if you’re busy, it’s not at work. Which makes me wonder what—or who—you’ve been busy with.”
I reexamine my suddenly interesting sandwich, picking out the dodgier bits. “You know, it’s possible to be busy outside of work. And it’s just as possible to be busy on my own.”
Several times a day, as a matter of fact.
Akhras ya, Asadi.
“Um, did you just cuss out that dreadful sandwich in Arabic?”
I sniff at the offense to lunches everywhere and rewrap it, then point to my head. “No, I’m just telling off my husband.”
She looks around quickly and asks under her breath, “Wait, how are you married?”
I’d laugh at the way her jaw has lost all semblance of structure, but I don’t want her to hit me. “He’s, uh. He’s dead.”
She smacks my arm anyway. “You were married, and you have a dead husband?”
“Ow. And yeah, long story. I was his translator on an op in Iraq. Instant sparks, love, marriage, brain cancer.”
“Rafi!” she says, smacking me again.
“What?”
