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“But you believe it.”
She nodded. Two tense people backing off cautiously. “And you believe I’m a fire hazard. I’ve got lots of energy. Always. I don’t need much sleep. Multitasking is my jam. Make me do one thing for too long and I’m tearing out my hair. But all you can see is that I’m undisciplined and inefficient.”
“You want me to lie with your pie?”
“No, I want it not to be weird between us.”
“Tell me you sleep in pajamas.”
“T-shirt and panties as a concession to being here, in case I sleepwalk.”
His brows went up. “You sleepwalk?”
“I’m not technically asleep when I do it. I might visit the fridge in the middle of the night and I’d forget not to do it naked, so the makeshift PJs are about not wanting to flash my landlord should he also decide he needs a glass of milk at three in the morning. Also, while we’re talking about nakedness—”
“We’re not talking about nakedness.” He looked her right in the eyes as if he was doing some secret military industrial-complex mind-control shit, and he wanted her to forget they were talking about sleeping naked.
“I’m not terrible in bed. There’s a drought, but that doesn’t presume any correlation with my suckiness in the sack.”
“I didn’t say you were terrible in bed.”
“You implied it.”
“You’re a nun. I didn’t imply anything. That would be sacrilegious.”
“You don’t sleep naked, do you?”
“Maybe we could make this not weird some other way.”
“Like trade our Tinder profile info.”
“Like eat pie.” He went to the freezer. “Ice cream?”
It was vanilla bean, some designer brand. “Sure.”
He moved about getting plates and fancy cake forks out of their places while she sat on the stool she’d used earlier.
“My Tinder tagline says ‘older-than-she-looks professional woman seeks hostile man for mutual psychological torture, rough sex, sleeping together naked, potential codependency and certain heartbreak.’”
He didn’t look up. “It does not.”
“It says everything except the rough sex part. That’s for negotiating later.”
“And your picture is you with your tits out.”
She laughed, because he looked up and his face colored. “Now who’s not talking about nakedness?” He had a Tinder profile, she was sure of it. “It’s a selfie taken in a club—it’s too dark. I’m making a peace sign. There’s two people behind me sucking face. It’s terrible. I wasn’t trying. Haven’t gone on there in forever. My bio really says ‘probably don’t bother.’”
“You have a bad photo and a crappy tag. That makes no sense.”
“Had no incentive to get into dating. I knew I wanted to be in New York or Washington. But I like sex, so Tinder seemed perfect, except not, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“You called me a ghost. You thought I ghosted you, that’s an online dating reference, and since you like things uncomplicated I figure you have a Tinder profile. No shirtless pic. No image-softening animals. You’re wearing shades. No, I know, it’s an action shot. You’re riding a mechanical bull and your tagline says, ‘I’m Thomas, and I cuddle at the level that should require a subscription.’ No, wait, no, it’s ‘treat you like a Disney princess on the streets and a porn princess between the sheets.’ Or, or, ‘whenever I meet a pretty girl, the first thing I look for is intelligence, because if she doesn’t have that, she’s mine.’”
Not even a snicker. He took a cake server from the drawer and cut into the pie, plated two huge slices then spooned ice cream on them. “It’s ‘pizza is my second favorite thing to eat in bed.’”
She near head-banged the countertop she laughed so hard. She’d given up on thinking he’d react. And he would never eat pizza in bed.
