He crosses his arms, as if offended by my inquiry, shaking his head deliberatelyno.
“Are you royalty or something? Is that why you don’t talk? Do I know you?”
He’s not answering anything else. Did I ask too many questions? Did I say the wrong thing? I push myself to stand. Closing the space between us, so tired of constantly being in the dark.
“Please... I need answers.”
Just one more step closer and I would be pressed against his chest.
His head tilts downward, so close to him that he can only view me by putting his chin on his chest. As I study this immovable mysterious man, the grip on my towel instinctively tightens, causing my hand to tingle and ache. After long moments of us silently facing off in a weird ying yang of dark versus light, he tilts his head to the side. Nothing more.
This is beyond frustration. “I don’t understand.” I nearly cried.
He steps around me, going to my vanity, and returns with something in his hand. Standing just behind me now, he pushes my hair back behind my ear and gently removes the earbud. Clearly, no more songs will be played. Tenderly, he begins brushing the ends of my hair, gradually working his way up, to remove tangles from my still damp strands.
I hadn’t had a chance to finish, being caught off guard when I saw him in my bed. He’s so close. My fight or flight slowly ebbsaway, and in its place, contentment is causing my eyes to become heavy. The brush running over my scalp and the fact that this man has only brought me pleasure, every time we’re together.
Heat radiates off him like a furnace on a winter’s day. He smells masculine. Also, a little like black licorice, which really has a bad rap, in my opinion. It’s such a sweet and intoxicating odor.
My eyes fly back open when the brushing stops. With gloved hands, he places one of the hearing aid cases behind my ear; then carefully wraps the tube around, positioning the inner receiver just inside my ear.
Aside from my parents or doctors showing me when I was little, no one has ever done this for me. Never so intimately. Not like this.
Delicately, he does the same thing to my other ear.
It’s odd how much I crave this stranger’s touch, more than he probably even realizes, but knowing now he’s not Eamon, feels like I’ve somehow wronged everyone involved. Does my stalker know Eamon? Has he watched me go on dates with him? Is this enigmatic man some bar patron who has slowly become obsessed with me?
The absence of his touch causes me to groan. I continue standing in the center of my bedroom, now hearing his footsteps leave only to return just as quickly, with a robe from the bathroom. He drapes it over my shoulders, guiding my arms through. Swiftly, he tugs the towel away and pulls the garment closed with the tie in the middle.
My face feels hot. Am I running another fever? How is he able to withdraw such intense feelings from me? Despite all the things I’ve let this man do to me, I’m still reluctant… fascinated… eager. Am I bothered he hasn’t touched me or impressed he’s trying to care for me?
He takes me by the hand and escorts me to the couch, as if I’m a visitor in my own home. I may be able to hear now that my hearing aids are on, but he has yet to speak to me.
Placing a blanket over my shoulders, he leaves the room.
What would Andrea say if she walked in right now? She already seemed to have a distaste for Eamon; how would she react when she found me shacked up with a random masked stranger?
He returns promptly with a glass of water and a box of flu and cold tablets. Placing down the glass in front of me, he shakes the box and proceeds to the kitchen. It’s unsettling how effortlessly he moves through the space, finding everything he needs with ease.
Well… he’s been here before, but how long has he been watching me? Does he have cameras in here?
He stops what he’s doing, pulling me from my thoughts, and points to the box of medicine and then to me.
Bossy. I hold up the blister pack of pills, exaggerating each motion, as I unpackage, wave the pill at him, and swallow the set. Not because he told me to, but because it has been multiple hours since I last took a dose.
He fetches the leftover pastina soup from the fridge and proceeds to ladle a portion in a bowl before microwaving. Cementing the fact, he is the one who made the soup. He’s clearly taking care of me. It seems like the more interactions I have with this man, the gentler he becomes.
That or it’s a textbook case of Stockholm Syndrome and I need to resume seeing my therapist at once. Is it wrong that I don’t have regrets about the things we’ve done together?
The microwave stops humming, and he carries the piping hot bowl over to my seated position, placing it on the coffee table before me. He extends a spoon, indicating he wants me to eat. Apparently, this man has superpowers to command his will.
I can eat, suck, and take orders like a good girl; just with a few subtle prompts. Really, I’m just being facetious, because he’s always given me a choice. He’s never MADE me do anything. It’s my play. I decided how the pieces move on the board.
I start eating as he grabs the remote, powers on the TV, and queues up my comfort show,The Sopranos. I actually haven’t watched it since he last griped at me forrewatchingthe wedding episode. As I predicted, he already knew I haven’t watched any further; beginning the next episode in season 6:Live Free or Die.
I wonder if he’s overheated in all those layers, as he lowers himself to the couch next to me. His heavy body causes me to tip slightly toward him. He then drapes his arm over the back of our seat and proceeds to cross his ankle onto the other knee. Are we really snuggling up on the couch together to watch a show? This all seems strangely normal. Aside from him being decked out in full militant gear and me looking like a disheveled cat lady who hardly ever leaves the house… you’d almost think we were a couple.
We silently watch the episode about a family disgraced by the actions of two consenting adults. Lies, built on lies, creating conflict for everyone involved. Pride and anobligation to familymake people do stupid things, blood or not. I can’t help but glance at the door frequently, expecting my roommate to appear at any moment.
