She flipped through the channels before finding some American TV show about crooked politicians and their fixers.
"I love this show," she sighed as I brought out a bottle of rich Bordeaux and theMedovik.
"What do you love about it?" I asked. I would've thought a show like this would hit too close to home for her.
"The show has a lot of political drama, and every single character is flawed, but even though they make mistakes, they all do it for a reason. The president has had an ongoing affair with his fixer, but he loves her. He's made some poor political choices because of her, and she has pulled away, not wanting to hurt his career."
"So you like that they're all dirty politicians?"
"All politicians are dirty," she said matter-of-factly. "No one is in Washington purely to help the little guy. The ones who say they are, are flat out lying. The politicians who actually want to make a difference stay at the state level or lower."
"So then, why do they do it? Why run for office? They can make more money in the private sector."
"Some do it for money. They may have a fixed salary that they take, but the insider information, the backroom deals, all of it grows their wealth. Some do it for power, others simply for their egos. These characters—these fictional characters—a lot of them are idealists, and when they make mistakes, it's not for money, it's for love. I may disagree with what they do, but I can understand their motivation."
I nodded for a moment, thinking about the way her mother looked at her, and I got it.
I set the cake down on the table and handed her a spoon. Then I poured the wine and gave her a glass. "If anyone asks about this, I will deny it."
"Deny what?"
I took my spoon and plunged it into the cake, taking out a massive bite and then closing my eyes as the flavors of honey and sweetened milk melted over my tongue.
She giggled, actually giggled, and the light, joyful sound lifted a layer of anxiety that I still didn't understand why I felt.
My hand found her thigh through the duvet, squeezing gently. She didn't pull away.
We ate and watched the show, not really saying anything. I kept my hand on her leg, my thumb drawing lazy circles that changed her breathing, deepened it.
By the time the credits rolled, the glasses of wine were empty, and what was left of the cake sat in its plastic box.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Sing for me." I didn't think about it. I didn't even know the words were going to come out of my mouth until they had. But that was what I wanted—I wanted to hear her beautiful, soulful voice again.
"I don't have my guitar," she argued.
"Sing anyway," I said.
"I don't know what to sing."
"Anything, just sing for me."
She closed her eyes, took a moment to think, then lyrics floated from her lips in a bittersweet melody filled with pain and longing. If I had a heart, it would break from her song alone.
I closed my own eyes, letting her voice wash over me. My hand tightened on her thigh, anchoring myself to this moment, to her.
I could almost hear the soft strums of an acoustic guitar behind her, and when the final note faded, I reached for her, my hand wrapping around the back of her neck as I pulled her in for a soft kiss.
She put her hand on mine and pulled away from my embrace.
I tightened my grip for just a second—a breath, a heartbeat—before forcing myself to let her go.
"Please don't," she whispered. "I can't take the back and forth."
"What back and forth?" I didn't let her go far. I pulled her into my lap and into my arms, holding her against me, feeling every tremor that ran through her small frame.
"One moment you're threatening to kill me, the next you're fucking me. I can handle that. The violence and the sex that go together. But then when you're like this, when you're tender and soft, I don't know what to expect. It's too much. It's too twisted and too fucked up. I just can't."
