He barely gives me the time of day.
Yet somehow I still feel complicit every time my desire for Olsen burns.
Guilt weighs on me constantly.
I haven’t walked away as often as I should.
I’ve let myself linger in the moment whenever those lips hover near mine.
Almost as if I have some unspoken need to be near him whenever possible.
This seductive but tender man is a bonfire offering warmth and solace.
I’ve spent two years being left out in the cold.
And who else can I talk to about this?
One afternoon, I confess my angst to Olsen.
Hopefully it might quell the spark between us.
Maybe he’ll get tired of hearing me harp on about some other guy.
“It's like I miss him, even though he's there all the time,” I lament.
He buries his face in his hands before answering.
“For a chef, Porter seems way too comfortable letting you starve.”
I hate to admit it, but he has a point.
“I know, it's like he's not even bothering to throw me crumbs anymore.”
“You deserve more than crumbs, okay? You deserve the whole fucking loaf.”
His words leave me flustered.
I revert back to my usual defense.
“He's just scared to let anyone know that he…”
“Likes taking naughty showers with the kitchen hand?”
“I mean, we used to. But not for more than a year.”
“A year?” Olsen almost chokes on his water. “That’s not even a situationship.”
“We cuddle maybe once a month.”
“Cuddle as in…?”
“No. Nothing flirty, just…”
“Mates who share a pillow?”
“Most of the time I sleep alone, but sometimes we fall asleep while talking.”
“Talking about romantic stuff?”
