I tilt my head, “That’s never going to work.”
He furrows his brow, “Yes, it will.”
He says it like a spoiled child, used to getting whatever he wants.
But he’s right. It works. He takes my bra off over my head, no fussing with clasps.
I was ready to walk out the door. Maybe it was the bottle of sake, maybe it’s the way he effortlessly helps me on with my coat, or the way he took my hand in the cab on the way to his place. Maybe it’s his accent. Maybe it’s the way his stern seriousness crumbles and he erupts into absolute giggles or the way he kisses me in public without it being awkward at all.
Maybe it’s the way he gestures and says, “That’s my plant.” And it really is quite a plant.
But I kissed him a little more, and end up being carried to his bed, with my coat, scarf, bag, shirt, gloves, and bra in a pile by his front door.
Maybe I just like him.
I wake up before he does. I have things to do. He admits he’s hungover and lies in bed watching me get dressed.
“You’re cute,” he says, seriously.
I’m on the train by 10:30.