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How is it even her bloody handwriting is sexy?
The way it slants and curves and spins around on itself, I swear it’s like watching her walk across the room, which is something I shamelessly do often.
Well, I did when she was regularly coming in with her husband.
There wasn’t much else I could do.
I respect marital boundaries even when others don’t.
Ruining a committed relationship is not who I am, nor who I was raised to be. Taking someone from someone else simply sets you up to have that person taken from you. How you acquire things in the various aspects of your life is often quite telling of how you may lose them. Some call it Karma. Some call it fate. In my family, we simply call it the golden rule to not being an arsehole.
Respect the ring is what the Irish side always says.
It’s proof that a vow has been made.
And vows at that level are the utmost sacred ones that two people can make it.
However, Harper no longer has that ring.
That vow is no longer valid because she’s divorced.
And while she was on a date with another man last night, they weren’t together. They were nowhere near an item. Had they been, I would have backburned my tactics, like a real man does. From what I used my Luther skills to detect, they were on a first date, which is why I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about the way we were eye shagging all night. It was HD clear to her as much as it was to me that I should’ve been at the table feeding her bites of her favorite meal while annoyingly sighing at him for being an overly attentive server.
“What is that, primo?” Gabby Díaz, my flat and best mate, inquires on her way towards the kitchen area of our small, shared living space. “Lotto ticket?”
“It definitely feels as though I hit the fucking jackpot,” I happily reply, eyes drifting over to where she’s turning on the coffeemaker.
“Why?”
“I’ve wanted her number from the first time she was ever sat in my section.”
She ruffles her shoulder-length, dark brown hair, stabs the button on the machine, and ruffles it again during her wait for it to roar to life. “Why didn’t you ask for it then?”
“She was married.”
“And now?”
“Not.”
“Dead?”
“Divorced.”
“Is there really a difference?”
“Not to some.”
Gabby nods in approval prior to pounding the button again. “Why’d she write her number on paper? Cell broken? Can’t afford a cell like we can’t afford a new fucking coffeemaker?”
“We can afford a new coffeemaker. You just won’t let me buy one.”
“I don’t need a man to buy me things.” She sasses at the same time she hits the machine harder. “I don’t need a woman to buy me things.” Her movements grow violent. “I can buy myself fucking things. I am capable of taking care of me.”
“Yes, but you said we. And you don’t speak French fluently – just Spanish – so I know this is not one of those language barrier moments we stumble across on occasion.”
Not because I can’t speak Spanish, because I can. And do. Benefit of having a biracial mother that’s dedicated to embracing both halves of herself.
“Okay, I didn’t literally mean we,” my flat mate aggressively grouses. “I meant me.”
