“How’s the tea?” he asks.
I take a sip—and nearly spit it back out. Hanry’s alleged “tea” tastes like dirt. I’d rather mow someone’s lawn with my teeth than drink this abomination.
“It’s great,” I say with a Duchenne smile.
Then I nestle against Hanry’s side. He starts the movie, and I abandon the tea for the cozy warmth beside him.
Uninterested in his Halloween-inspired choice of horror film, I slide my hand from Hanry’s arm to his broad shoulder, squeezing meaningfully. Making subtle little noises of interest. I trail my fingertips to his chest, waiting for him to respond. His shadowed blue eyes remain fixed on the screen of his Roku TV—on a badly CGI’d mutant beehive exploding.
It’s kind of insulting, frankly.
Making less subtle noises, I push my leg against Hanry’s. When he doesn’t respond, I slide my leg all the way across, hooking my heel around his well-muscled calf. I’m sending out irresistible clingy energy, like a sexy octopus.
“Sabby,” he laughs as he picks up the remote. “You sound like a race car.”
“A sexy race car, right?”
Pausing on the swarm, Hanry turns to me with a knowing look. Eyes crinkling, he says, “You’re not enjoying the movie, are you?”
“There’s something I want to enjoy more.”
“Oh yeah?” asks Hanry.
Maybe Hanry was just pretending to be dense. Now that I’ve gotten his attention, he cups the back of my head with his hand and sweeps his tongue over my lips, parting them. Kissing me, long and slow. Finally. I hum with satisfaction when his arms draw me closer. His fingers slide up under my shirt hem, to the clasps of my bra. Finally. Wanting to encourage him, I kiss harder. I splay my hands on his stomach, basking in the smooth heat against my palms.
Hanry’s breath catches.
“I promise I find you more interesting than bees,” he says, so close that the words fall warm and heavy against my face.
“Good,” I whisper back.
Then his hand travels to my hip—and lower. I shift, rising so that his hand cradles my butt—a jolt like electricity travels between us—and suddenly the apartment floods with the sound of angry buzzing.
“What the hell!” I shout over the cacophony. As I jerk, the image on-screen jumps from a swarming alien bee army to a flatly animated man chasing a goose.
“Honk!” ejects the avian rogue.
“Sorry, sorry!” Hanry laughs, his hand groping around under my thigh. “You must’ve rolled over the button. Scooch over.”
“Are you calling me fat?!”
“No, I—it’s a goose game… like a video game with a goose…”
What is it with everyone’s obsession with birds around here? First Bulan, now Hanry! “Why can’t you just turn it—agghh!”
I’m drowned out by buzzing so loud, I have to cover my ears. Finally, Hanry pushes meright off the sofa, so I land in a blankety pile of devastation on the floor. Spilled tea makes itself known, soaking through my pants. “What the hell!” I grouse again as Hanry reaches between the sofa cushions and untucks a remote control. Clicks it.
Finally, the TV ceases screaming at us.
In the once-again quiet, cozy living room, Hanry draws his eyebrows together in his typical whimsical apology.
“Sorry,” he repeats, extending a hand to me. “I… like the size of your butt?” he says with an uncertain smile. Which I appreciate, but ugh. Just…ugh. I am tea-muddy and my ears are ringing and the mood is definitely over. At least I won’t have to drink the mud-tea.
“Whatever,” I say. And after I change into a pair of Hanry’s ridiculous, oversize sweatpants and come back into the room, Hanry has put out a set out of linens and wool blankets for the sofa. He pulls me back up beside him—this time, settling a few inches farther away. He seems as bummed out as I am about the way the evening has gone, but he’s not trying to fix it, either.
Again: ugh. I can’t believe this. My de facto boyfriend may be the best, but this slow-burn, lady-blue-balls bullshit? It’s the worst.
And if I didn’t know better, I’d think Grandma’s magical will or saboteurs or some other unknowable force was responsible for it too.
