“I’ll be seventy, still pissed I let you walk.”
He drops his fist to his side. “No bullshit.”
We stare at each other,
trapped in the moment.
“Andrew,” I sigh.
“Allison,” he edges.
He grins.
“Yeah… I fuckin’ love when we do that.”
I roll my eyes. “You have a girlfriend.”
He looks at me sideways. “If you wouldn’t mind, I prefer not to label her as my girlfriend.”
“Fine,” I say. “You have a relationship, then.”
“A relationship? Nah. More of a…
“recurring problem I haven’t fixed yet."
I press my palm to my forehead,
looking at the door.
Then my eyes drift back to him.
‘Cause they’re stupid
and don’t listen to a fucking thing I say.
“I don’t date.” I hold up a finger?—
“Let’s just start there."
Andrew watches me like I’m a wild animal in a very pretty dress.
“I don’t sit across from guys at tables.
“With food. Or coffee. Or drinks.
“I don’t do the whole slow-burn,will-they-won’t-theycrap.
“I don’t do fuck buddies, or casual,
“or whatever the hell you got goin’ on with your recurring problem.”
I slash the air, crossing it all out.
“I abso-fucking-lutely do not share anything with anyone. Not men. Not blankets. Not my favorite songs. Not food. Not even with God. You could be dying of starvation, I’ll eat the last bite. Won’t even fake cry at your funeral.”
A grin pulls at him.
I ignore it.
