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It’s an open-plan living and dining room combined. The furniture is all white but doesn’t appear too sterile. It’s nicely decorated with splashes of bright colors and a million cushions.
What’s with the cushions? I’m not a picky guy, but I think cushion-loving women need to come with a warning.
“I love this place. Moved here about two years ago.” She finishes the last drop of wine, informing me she’s going to grab some more and to make myself comfortable on the couch. I never really understood when people say to make yourself comfortable. Isn’t that what you would naturally do? Why would you purposely make yourself uncomfortable?
As I move over, I sit on the edge, not sure if I’m allowed to mess the carefully aligned cushion thing going on. Grabbing my cell, I text a message just out of curiosity, wondering if this needs to be brought up in our therapy sessions.
Me: Since you’re a woman, can you please explain the purpose to me of why you need a million cushions on a couch?
I’m not expecting an immediate response, knowing Adriana has a work function going on. Moments later, I’m surprised to see my screen light up.
Adriana: I’m guessing date night is getting cozy. To be honest, I hate cushions. You only need one. Are you expected to take them on and off every day?
The comment throws me off. It isn’t at all like that. I don’t want that, do I? Nyree is gorgeous, sexy, but something about tonight feels off.
Me: She’s gone to get more wine, so to answer your question, it’s not one of those dates. You know Eric is a serial cushion freak.
Nyree is taking a long time to get wine. I poke my head to the side, unable to see her shadow in the kitchen. Maybe she stores wine somewhere else in her apartment. Like where… her bedroom? I enjoy the solitude, taking advantage of texting while she’s gone.
Adriana: Eric is a freak in everything. More wine eh? That can’t be a good sign. Losing your touch, Baker?
This feeling creeps in, a part of me telling me to leave now. Why, though? Adriana doesn’t say anything untrue. Typing at record speed, I send a text followed by regret. I shouldn’t have said that, I don’t know what it means, and the worst part is, I don’t want her to feel guilty.
Me: Maybe, or maybe it’s just the wrong person.
I hear the gentle footsteps behind me and feel the touch of Nyree’s hands massaging my shoulders. I close my eyes for a few moments, hoping her touch connects with me somehow, but it might as well be a ninety-year-old woman touching me because it feels wrong. All wrong.
I shouldn’t have sent that text.
Why did I say that?
She doesn’t respond. I hurt her. I made her feel guilty, and I know it.
I crossed the line in our friendship, and the thought alone is tearing me up inside.
Nyree must be sensing the tension in my muscles, so she squeezes harder, then moves toward the sofa. She’s wearing a thin black negligee. It’s very sheer, her pink nipples erect under the garment. Between her long, tanned legs and perfect breasts, she is absolutely stunning and irresistible to any man before her.
Except me.
Watching this model-like woman stand in front of me, ready to pleasure me in a way I haven’t been pleasured in a long time, one would think my pants would be ready to burst. Yet, I sit here, flaccid as a starfish, and all I can think about is how smooth her skin is.
When all I want to kiss are scars.
How her eyes shine brightly, full of life.
When all I want to look into are the eyes of a warrior.
How her lips are plump and luscious red.
When all I want to taste are red, raw, chapped lips.
Nyree reaches out to touch me, and I recoil instantly, startled by my reaction. I can’t feel this way about Adriana. You’re her friend and have formed a special bond with her which can’t be broken. These thoughts are poisonous like a sick carousel of emotions. Do not break that trust.
“Is something the matter?” Nyree appears taken aback.
“I, uh… I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I respond.
She pulls back, the hurt evident on her face. “A lot on your mind or someone else on your mind?”
