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“I thought you might like some food.”
I put the plate on the table to his side. He just glances at it, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn't reach for them. He doesn’t say thank you. His eyes have already switched back to looking into the distance, expecting to see something before anyone else does.
“Well, ok then,” I say, feeling more awkward than ever. “I guess I’ll go back inside.”
His eyes don’t move. I turn away from him, and the moment I touch the door to push it open, I hear his voice.
“Thank you.”
I acknowledge it with a barely visible nod, and a smile that belongs only to me. I return to the kitchen, and see that Anderson has finished with his food and has already washed his plate.
“Coffee?” he asks, drying his wet hands on a kitchen towel.
“Sure,” I nod, sitting back down.
“I’m afraid we don’t have milk, but we do have some creamer.”
“That’s fine.”
I see him hovering over a small, vintage looking coffee machine that chortles out a small coffee in one big splat. He puts it carefully before me, then hands me the creamer.
“Let’s see if it thinks I deserve a coffee as well,” he chuckles, but as soon as he presses the same button as before, nothing happens. He tries a few more times, but doing the same thing over and over again rarely produces different results. “Stupid son a bitch machine…” he whispers to himself, but I hear him loud and clear.
His curse attack makes me laugh, and it feels good, like I haven’t laughed in a long time.
“Sorry,” he tells me, gesturing at himself helplessly. “I can be pretty crude sometimes.”
“You’re fine,” I assure him.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“A glass of water maybe?”
“Coming right up,” he lifts his index finger in the air, like a superhero wannabe, then turns over to the bottles of water and pours some into a glass for me.
But, before he can set it down nicely on the table, he trips over something on the small carpet, and the glass, along with all the water inside, end up on my sweatshirt. I jump, squawking at the cold sensation that washes over me in an instant, jumping up from my seat.
“Oh, crap…” he manages to muster. “I’m so sorry…”
“It’s fine - “ I start, but before I can say anything else, I feel his hands pressing the kitchen towel onto my breasts, which are tightly pressed against the thin fabric of the sweatshirt. It is only now that I realize I’m not wearing a bra, which isn’t advisable if you’re going to be entering a wet t-shirt contest.
Mortified as well as amused, thinking what my girlfriends would say if they saw me like this, with a guy dabbing my wet chest with a kitchen towel, I can’t even move. It takes him a moment longer to realize what he’s doing, and he immediately stops.
“Oh, I just made it even weirder, didn’t I?”
He looks at my breasts, then realizes he’s not looking where he’s supposed to be looking, so he quickly lifts his glance up to the level of my eyes. At this point, neither of us can resist laughing, so we both start cracking up. I’ve totally forgotten all about my nipples poking through my sweatshirts, and I just laugh jovially, heartfelt and without restraint.
At some point, I finally remember to cross my hands in front of my chest, and nod, not really knowing what else to do.
“I guess I’ll just go and change,” I say, blushing more than ever, but somehow, not caring.
“Again, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, making sure to keep his eyes firmly upon mine, not straying for a single moment. “It wasn’t intentional…”
“Relax, it’s fine,” I smile, still nodding, feeling like a bobble head, but unable to stop the motion. “I’ll just…” I point at the hallway. “I’ll be right back…”
I run into my room to hide, feeling like this house’s been struck by the latest Ice Age, and my nipples had a lot to say about it. Now, I could start overthinking this, and being embarrassed, but seeing I need to spend a whole month here, with Anderson under the same roof, maybe overthinking wasn’t the right way to go.
“Just… let it go,” I whisper to myself, my eyes closed.
