“And a seven is an insult. That risotto is a nine minimum. His methodology has a bias toward cream sauces that compromises the entire framework.”
“Take it up with Berger.”
“I have taken it up with Berger. Berger says his methodology is sound.”
And then he laughs. I stop talking because talking would cover it up and I want to hear every second of it. His face is open and his grin has gone soft at the edges and the room holds both of us in a version of this that he doesn’t usually let happen in this building. Then he picks up the chart. Clicks the pen. Writes a number.
The moment ends the way his moments always end, with the professional version of him stepping back in. But he let it go longer than usual. He didn’t catch it. He didn’t kill it. That matters.
“We’re extending between sessions. Every five days instead of three.”
I knew this was coming. The shoulder is at ninety-six percent. I can feel it in the range, in the way my shot has come back, in the fact that the compensating I was doing in September is gone. The sessions are going to space out because I am getting better and that is the point. The point was always getting better. The fact that getting better means fewer mornings in this room with his hands on me and his voice explaining what’s happening in my shoulder in that register that’s supposed to be clinical but is actually just unfair is not relevant. It is not relevant and I am not going to think about it.
“Are you breaking up with me, Brooks?” I gasp like we haven’t been circling this for weeks.
“Medically.”
“That’s still a breakup.” I slide off the table. I pause in the doorway because the doorway is where I do my best work. The grin I give him is the one that’s just for him, the one I know he registers even when he pretends he doesn’t. “See you Thursday.”
“Thursday.”
Though we both know he’s coming over tonight.
The apartment gets the full treatment. Wine open on the counter. The playlist sequenced so the first three tracks are his recommendations from last week. Parker is on her armrest, asleep, completely unimpressed by my efforts to make a Tuesday night look effortless when it is, in fact, very effortful. I rearranged the throw pillows. I will not think about the fact that I rearranged throw pillows for a man who will not notice the throw pillows.
The knock comes and I open the door and his shirt is on my floor before the door is fully closed because I do not believe in pacing.
“I have a theory,” I say against his mouth. His back is against my kitchen counter and his hands are on my waist and I can feel the tension in his fingers, the thing he holds at work letting go in increments. “About Tuesdays.”
“You have a theory about Tuesdays.”
“Tuesdays are the most underrated night of the week. Friday has pressure. Saturday has expectations. Tuesday has nothing. Whatever happens on a Tuesday is pure.”
“Keep going.” He pulls my shirt over my head and runs his hand down my chest and my stomach tenses under his palm because his hands are still warm and the warmth goes somewhere specific.
“Tuesday sex is the best sex because there’s no performance requirement. It’s not anniversary sex. It’s not makeup sex. It’sjust...” He undoes my belt, slides the zipper down, and presses his knuckle against me through the fabric. “What was I...”
“Tuesdays.”
“Right…Tuesdays.” And then his fingers are in my briefs and his hand wraps around me and he just holds. No stroke. No movement. Just the pressure of his palm and his thumb at the base and the heat of his hand and I am going to lose my mind.
“Zay.”
“Mmm?”
“You can’t just hold me there. You have to do something.”
“I’m assessing.” I can feel his breath on my cheek and I want to turn into it.
“You are not assessing my dick right now.”
“I assess everything.” He strokes me once. Base to tip, slow, his thumb dragging through the wet at the tip, and my jaw drops and the second point of my Tuesday thesis comes out as air.
“That...” I swallow. “That was good. That was a strong opening.”
“I know.” He does it again, his lips against my jaw. My hip pushes into his fist and my head drops back against the cabinet.
I pull at his clothes between kisses, getting his belt undone because I refuse to be the only undressed person in any room. His mouth moves down my chest. His tongue dragging down the center line, then his mouth lower. My ribs, my stomach, the muscles pulling tight under his lips. He bypasses my cock entirely and presses his mouth to my inner thigh and the sound I make is involuntary and undignified and I don’t care.
