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“Are you asking me to argue with you?”
“No.” She smiles and presses her lips to mine. “You’ll know if I’m trying to start an argument.”
I kiss her back and I take her again. No ropes or teasing or claims. Just the two of us joining together, melting into each other, enjoying the night, falling asleep in the messy sheets.
…
This time, I wake to breakfast. The scent of tea and eggs and hot sauce. Deanna in her silk pajama shorts set, pulling the silver cover off the room service tray, sitting at the table as she fixes her tea.
“My version of cooking.” She rolls a napkin, places it in her lap. “Eggs Benedict via credit card.”
“I could teach you when we get back.” It’s strange, mentioning the future. After last night, it feels inevitable, but it’s not. Life here is complicated. And if Grandma and my sisters get their way, I won’t be here long. I’ll be on the other side of the country. “If you want.”
I rise slowly. A lazy stretch. A long yawn. The firm ground beneath my feet.
She gives me a long, slow once-over, studying my bare shoulders, chest, abs, thighs. “Were we talking about something?”
I tease her, “Aren’t you objectifying me?”
“You’re an artist.” She pulls her eyes away for long enough to pour tea into her mug. “You should be used to it.”
“Objectifying myself?”
“Yeah. All those self-portraits.”
It’s not a bad point, actually. “Sometimes. Mostly, I work on other people’s projects.”
“What do you actually do at the company?” she asks.
“The art in adaptations and other contract stuff,” I say. “I got the idea from Grandma. She used to buy me graphic novel adaptations of classics. I brought it to my boss. He asked me to spearhead the project.”
“I can see you there, in some New York office building, guiding artists to find their vision.” She looks me in the eyes. “Is it anything like that?”
“Mostly phone calls and Zoom meetings, but otherwise, yeah.”
“Do you miss it yet?” she asks. “The city?”
“Sometimes.”
“When do you think you’ll go back?” There’s hesitation in her voice. Worry.
She’s thinking about it, too. What this means. What we mean. “I don’t know. Grandma doesn’t want me to stay. North and Fern don’t, either.”
“But you want to stay for her?” she asks.
“For a few reasons.”
She smiles, but there’s a sadness to it, like she knows my reasons are semi-tragic. “Go. Brush your teeth so I can kiss you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m not that old.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Don’t even.” She tosses her napkin at me.
I catch it and press it to my heart, as if it’s a token of her love. Maybe it is. This is how Deanna expresses herself.
