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Come on.
Things aren’t where they were on me when I was his age. Hell, they’re not even where they were when I got divorced! I mean, yeah some of the shit is a little toner – kudos to Nat for staying on my ass about the gym the first six months I joined it –, however, some shit definitely isn’t. Like I’ve got great full tits, but they aren’t that porn perky status they once were. And I think my nipples might be too dark now. Is that possible? And all of these fucking stretchmarks near my stomach and hips and arms make me look like I got my ass kicked in Wakanda by Black Panther himself. I can handle a little extra jiggle here or there or here and there but am I gonna look like a human Jell-O mold to him? Am I gonna remind him of something they served in the school cafeteria for lunch? Men my own age seem to understand how gravity and the human body works, but will he?
Am I about to endure the biggest embarrassment in all of my bedroom experience – including the Christmas morning masturbation disaster when I was seventeen?
Freeing my thick, straightened hair from its high ponytail is done to allow me a moment to comb my fingers through it.
Collect composure.
Convince myself to find something to put on as opposed to shouting from in here to just go home and that I’ll Venmo him money for the groceries.
Somewhere post cursing myself for not having lingerie – I always ignore Nat’s insistence that I need it – and cursing myself harder for trying to make the one comfy robe I have into something sexy, I settle on a sports bra underneath a baggy cropped hoodie and loose pair of sleep shorts with no underwear.
Thankfully, everything is good to go in that department courtesy of the arranged date that failed the other night.
At least going out with him was good for something.
It has me already prepared rather than scrambling in the bathroom last minute to make sure the conversation about woolly mammoths not being extinct doesn’t come up.
Geez…do they even teach the younger generations about those creatures anymore?
Would he have made a more relevant comparison like Chewbacca since Star Wars references are always relevant?
My eventual arrival back to the kitchen area instantly exposes me to a view I could easily spend the rest of my life enjoying. Not only is he barefoot and singing an Elvis song into a wooden spoon, he looks as though this is his home. Like he cooks in the space every day. Like drifting from end to end of the granite counters and spinning around to the island is a habit formed versus forming.
How is this possible?
And how do we make it last?
“What can I do to help?” I immediately ask, tone much dreamier and more longing than it has any right to be.
“You,” Tate points with the utensil, “can have a seat right there,” he motions to the barstool chair I’m beside, “and let me do all the work.”
Defensively, I argue, “I’ll have you know I’m a grown ass woman. I know how to cook for myself.”
“And I never implied you couldn’t.”
Shit.
He didn’t, did he?
Sabotage.
I am clearly on a self-sabotaging mission.
No wonder the matchmaker hates me, and Nat routinely sends me believe in yourself memes.
“And just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to, linda.”
Outrage occurs at the same time my ass hits the cushioned seat. “Why the hell did you just call me Linda?! I’m Harper.”
Chuckles fall free prior to him putting the spoon down. “I wasn’t calling you Linda by name, but linda as in beautiful.” His palms plant themselves on the small empty counter space he has. “It’s Spanish.”
“Why do you speak Spanish if you’re Irish?”
His counter is given on a crooked grin. “Can people not be more than one thing?”
Why does he keep getting the upper hand in our conversations? Shouldn’t like age and experience come into factor around now? Shouldn’t that be in my favor? Doesn’t something have to be in my favor?
