I woke up the same exact way I always do at his house. Hungover, maybe still drunk. Trying to recall every detail of the exact moments leading up to me crawling into his bed the night before.
He curled his right arm around me, and squeezed me into his chest. “You ready for coffee?”
I nodded without opening my eyes, “Mmhmm. Yes please.”
It’s always the same show, different stage.
He brewed us coffee, and as usual, drowned my cup in coffee cream. I didn’t say anything, though. I never do. He handed me a red and yellow striped mug.
“Oh,” my eyes darted between coffee mugs, “You got new mugs.” I reached for mine.
“I made them,” he said, “I took a pottery class with my daughter in Lodi a few weeks ago.”
“They’re cute!” I lifted mine above my head to check the bottom. ‘TEB’ was handwritten in paint. “They’re very cute.” I beamed at him in the pre-dawn darkness.
“Hey,” I began to ask, “Uh, did we have sex last night?”
“Yes, we did.” He replied.
“Did we talk about our feelings?”
“Yep.” He curled an arm around my shoulders.
“Did I cry?”
He gave me a kind side-eye, “yeah.”
“Ugh. Sorry.” I rolled my eyes at myself and leaned away from him. Just this constantly vulnerable, girl always crying for some reason,
“It’s okay,” He pulled me closer, “it’s what we do.”
Wild Little Hare 