I move to the kitchen, start pulling things out of the fridge.
I watch her hover near the couch, arms still wrapped around herself like she’s holding something in. Like she’s afraid if she lets go, she’ll fall apart.
“Sit,” I tell her, pulling out bread, cheese, cold cuts.
She doesn’t sit.
I grab a knife, start slicing the bread. The blade moves smooth across the cutting board, rhythmic. Familiar.
“Why are you being nice to me?” she asks.
I glance up. “Is that what you think this is?”
“You’re making me food.”
“I’m hungry. You’re here.” I shrug. “Might as well feed you too.”
She shifts her weight, and I catch the way her fingers dig into her arms. White-knuckled.Tense.
“Relax, Beda,” I say. “I’m not going to touch you.”
“So you say, yet before you tried to take my pants off.”
Fair point.
I set the knife down, turn to face her fully. “I thought you wanted me. My mistake.”
“Your mistake was assuming.”
“Most womendowant me.”
“I’m not most women.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the knife again, keep slicing. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “What does that mean? Beda?”
“Trouble.”
“You’re calling me trouble?”
“Aren’t you?”
She doesn’t answer.
I finish making the sandwich, slide the plate across the counter toward her. “Eat.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
We stare at each other. A battle of wills I’m not interested in losing.
Finally, she moves. Walks to the counter, looks at the sandwich then up at me. “You eat it.”
I chuckle. “Think I’m trying to poison you, Beda?”
Her eyebrow twitches.
