Keats drums his fingertips on the curve of my shoulder, and we seem to be stewing in the moments after sex. “What’s that over there?” His bumps his nose up.
I search for what he could be looking at, and I burst out with a laugh. “You mean the bumper sticker?” It’s propped up by a basket of books sitting near my TV; I saw it the other day at the gas station.
“It says ‘I stop for anything with legs,’” he reads.
I use the nail on my index finger to draw a circle on his chest and cluck my tongue. “I have that in case you piss me off too much, and I’ll just put it on your car when you’re sleeping.”
He doesn’t seem to be amused as I can feel his body tense slightly, but then it eases just as fast.
Quiet happens again, and we just lie here, near comatose.
I refuse to concede that our bodies mold when in this position next to one another or how comfortable I feel in his arms.
“I’m curious if Kelly will be hungover tomorrow,” I wonder.
Keats squeezes my arm. “I’m curious ifwewill be hungover tomorrow.”
I swat his chest. “Nah, you fucked me sober.”
He laughs at me, happily content with my humor.
“Anyhow, she deserves it,” I add.
Keats mumbles a noise in response before he blows out a long breath. “Why am I lying here and not leaving?” hethinks aloud, his fingers skimming down my arm, and he doesn’t even seem to recognize the affectionate move.
“Recovery time,” I supply.
“Before we would have escaped as fast as can be. I guess something always eventually happens to change perception, and it’s safe enough not to kill one another for our indiscretions.”
As much as he is trying to joke, I can’t help sense that an uncharted territory is looming in the distance. I think I might hope so. Lately, every moment around this guy feels like another pebble gone on the long path to a destination that I’m not quite sure of.
“No need to process it now,” I suggest. It’s the safest option.
He pats my arm to inform me that the moment is over. We begin to squirm until we are both off the couch and redressing with whatever fell to the floor. It’s funny, this is as naked as we’ve been, and I’m still wearing a bra.
“The fact is we crossed into enemies-with-benefits territory,” he highlights.
“Don’t make me think right now,” I beg drowsily.
“Everyone is searching for someone, even if they don’t realize it,” he mentions.
My face puzzles. “I’m not that someone.”
Keats stretches his shirt over his head. “I just meant you’re the kind of woman who is waiting for a husband.”
I scoff at the audacity. “Where is this coming from?”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying that if you think you want to find Mr. Right, then let me know and I will be sure to go back to annoying you ten out of ten on the scale, in place of our current sixish.”
Fluttering my eyes, an unexplainable anger begins to brew. “What about you? Surely, someone will cross yourpath, dying to be married to a lawyer who ignores her half the time due to work.”
“I don’t want that.”
Shaking my head, I need to point out his own logic. “You said it yourself, ‘everyone is searching’… and last I checked, you fall into the everyone category.”
The corner of his mouth hitches up. “This discussion is heading too deep.”
What in the world? How do I go from vaguely noticing that this guy is igniting new feelings in me to unbelievable exasperation? “Then don’t say something like that.”
