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Now to be fair, I have never discriminated against the race of women I would date or fuck, but what is different about her is that she is voluptuous. I have a type you see, and that type could easily walk the runway, but I always felt something was missing. Could it have been this? I mean, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result. I stand there washing my hands and flipping through my mental Rolodex, trying to remember if I ever showed any type of attraction to anything other than damn near rail-thin women, and yes, yes, I have.
I can recall feeling drawn to women with a little more meat on their bones all through my life, so why didn’t I act on it? Am I a coward? Did I conform to the women I was expected to be with instead of who I was truly attracted to? I do not like the answer in my head right now. I have always taken control of my life, walked to the beat of my own drum, and all this time, I have been a fucking coward.
“If you don’t stop, you’re going to wash the skin off of your hands,” she says, padding back into the kitchen. I look down and notice I have scrubbed my hands to the point that they are red.
“I guess I got lost in my thoughts,” I turn the water off, dry my hands and go to pull her chair out.
“I completely understand.”
“Yes, I guess you do. I had to hunt you down and force you to come eat something.”
“Guilty.”
“Well, let’s eat, and then we can talk,” I tell her, passing her a plate as I take one myself, and we dig in. I had sandwiches, fruit salad, and soup delivered for us from a local restaurant. I grab the remote to put on some music, just loud enough to cut through the quiet, fix my plate, and eat.
We eat in companionable silence, sampling a bit of everything until we are both full. “Okay, now that we’ve satisfied our hunger, let’s get started.”
“All right,” she says as I get up to pack up the remaining food.
“No, you sit there. I will clean up,” I tell her when she tries to help.
“Go ahead and ask me what you need to, I’m great at multitasking. Oh, and here,” I say, handing her back her stylus.
She begins tapping on the tablet as she starts rattling off questions to me telling me, “Just spit out the first thing that comes to mind, don’t overthink it.” And so I do. Then after her game of twenty-one questions, she says, “Okay, I need you to take this quiz.” Dutifully I have a seat, grab the tablet and start on question one.
“This is insane. How many questions are there to this quiz?”
“Enough,” she responds vaguely.
“That many, huh.”
“It is another way to get to know you, your style, and what you want. After all, I am designing three houses for you. I want you to be happy and comfortable, so please, humor me.”
“Alright, Trinitee, I’ll do my best and stop complaining.”
“While you are doing that, I want to take one final look; you should be done by the time I return,” she says, walking out of the kitchen. I focus back on this convoluted quiz so I can be done by the time she comes back.
How do you want your home to feel?
Describe your personal style…
What would you put on your dining room table?
Your friends would describe you as?
If you were a cocktail, you’d be?
What is your relationship to stuff?
How do I want guests to feel when they come over?
Intermingled with the questions are pictures of different rooms I have to choose from. It is quite an extensive quiz, and I soon find myself engrossed in answering the questions. I remember her telling me not to overthink it and just answer with the first thing that comes to mind.
“Finished?” her voice slightly startles me.
Trintiee
I didn’t need to take another look. I did, however, need to take a moment away from Kruze. He told me earlier to call him by his first name since my calling him Mr. Morehouse made him feel like his father. I wish I could start at one of the houses he is not in, but the renovations need to be done for his father to move in. Then I will work on his downtown property and his parents, which needs the most work.
