Jen wipes her face, her chest, the floor, and the part of the duvet that was in the splash zone. When she turns back to me, I reach out and wipe one last drop of cum from her eyebrow. “That was so hot.”
She turns away. “Well, it was a onetime thing. Don’t get any ideas.”
A little hurt, I take the cloth to the bathroom while she dresses. “Yeah, sure. I know that. Thanks for stitching me back together.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I wander out into the living room and am surprised when Jen joins me a moment later, putting on the kettle and getting out a mug for tea.
I slump onto the sofa and watch her while she pours the water and jiggles the tea bag, avoiding my gaze.
“What happened to us, Jen?”
She looks up. “Uh, you broke up with me.”
“No, I mean before that. Why did it stop being fun?”
“See, this is why you need therapy, Adam.”
I frown. “Me? I thought you said we should have therapy. Doesn’t that mean you need it too?”
“No! I need a therapist to make you listen to me. I don’t need therapy.”
“That’s bullshit, Jen. You always make out like I’m the cause of all the problems, but there were two of us in the relationship.”
“Were there?”
I sit up, tossing several pillows aside in frustration. “What does that even mean?”
Jen chucks her tea into the sink, untasted. “You know what, forget it. There’s no point trying to talk to you like an adult.”
“And you think you’re so mature,” I shoot back, getting up to follow her as she stalks to the bedroom door. “All you’re doing is throwing insults around. That’s not a real conversation.”
“Yeah? Well if you don’t like it, why don’t you and Runaway Maggie there—” here she gestures to my groin— “go find somewhere else to stay.”
“Did you just insult my dick?”
“No.”
“Yes you did. You just called my dick Maggie.”
“Actually I called her Runaway Maggie.”
I blow out a puff of air. “Clearly it’s a dude. I mean it’s a dick. My dick. Couldn’t you have given it a guy’s name?” It’s aridiculous argument. I know that. Somewhere along the line I’ve forgotten what I was actually angry about, though.
Jen scoffs. “Yeah, you’re right. Something that bails right when you need it to work hardest? That’s clearly a man.” She slams the bedroom door right in my face before I can even respond.
“At least I’m not Luca,” I mutter.
The door opens again, and she glares at me. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
The door slams again, and this time it doesn’t reopen.
I can never keep up with her when we argue. Nothing’s changed there. She runs rings around me. Guess that’s why she’s the one with the college degree and I’m the high school dropout working at my local gym.
I wince as I’m reminded that I’m quickly running out of sick days and my boss is starting to get antsy every time I call in. I don’t know what to tell him. I can hardly turn up at work like this—parts falling off. I haven’t trained in over a week, and most importantly, I look awful.
