The expression he aims at me needs no words to accompany it.
You can, but it’s easier for me, and I’m here, so I’m doing your damn dishes.
Today.
Today, he’ll do my dishes.
That was my issue when we were—whatever we were. Dating? Flinging? Situationshipping?
He’d do nice little things, and while I always said thank you, and I always appreciated it, I didn’ttrustit.
You do nice things when you’re trying to impress someone.
Doesn’t mean it’ll last.
God knows my mother learned that lesson long before I came into my parents’ lives. I was baby number five after four boys. And she was already done, except she wasn’t.
She wasn’t allowed to be.
She had mouths to feed and bodies to bathe and clothe and endless laundry to run, and my father thought that since he made more money, he didn’t have to do any of those things.
And she willingly spent her life sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of everyone else’s.
I force the memories of her out of my head and concentrate on my breakfast instead.
Eating takes longer than normal both because the sandwich is pretty hot and also because my body is moving at the same speed as my brain this morning. So Duncan’s finished the dishes and is squishing the errant napkins and food containers from my countertop into my trash can before I’m done.
He also gets the trash bag tied up and sets it next to the door, then replaces the bag in my can.
Pours me a cup of coffee when it finishes brewing, using the last clean mug on my mug tree next to the fridge.
Wipes my countertops with a soapy wet dishcloth while I’m lost in the bliss of a cup of coffee that someone else made me.
Which isn’t necessary.
It’s not.
I can make my own coffee. I appreciate my own coffee.
I’m just exceptionally grateful today that Duncan made it faster than I could’ve made it or gotten down the street to buy a latte.
And I finally remember to say thank you.
Which prompts my snail’s-pace brain to remember the other thing about Duncan being here. “We should pick a date for me to fulfill your experience.”
He smirks.
He freakingsmirks.
“I don’t care how much you bid on me, it doesn’t come with sex,” I say dryly.
“You already texted me about setting up a date,” he says. “Remember?”
Oh, shit.
I don’t.
I don’t remember.
