Disclaimers: If it applied earlier it probably still does... If you haven't read the first four chapters, go do it now. This isn't going to make sense overwise.
Note: Sorry for making y'all wait this long. I've had these chapters done for ages but completely forgot to post them. Don't ask me how I managed; I have no clue. Just another reason to join my list; I usually remember to post there. It's still... um, hold on, give me a sec, I'll remember... it's got my name in it... I think it's http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SBerrysStories/. You can still reach me at email@example.com.
My second morning with Cynthia goes much smoother. I wake to gentle kisses and I don't dump her on the floor. I hope that kissing will lead to more interesting pursuits, but after a few minutes, she says I gotta go to work. I don't wanna go, but she's right, I gotta. And she does too. But she says she'll call when she's done.
I reluctantly go home and change, then go into work. I work my ass off, trying to catch up. It would work better if I could keep from thinking about kissing Cynthia. I wonder if she's my girlfriend. I mean, we said the 'l' word. Surely that means something, right? How the hell do people figure it out? Does someone have to ask the other person? Are there certain rituals you gotta do? Or are you just automatically girlfriends after so long? Like, common law girlfriends? I hate that I don't know these things that everyone else knows. And that I have no one to ask. My life sucks. And I have to tell Cynthia about it. If she's my girlfriend now, she won't be after that. Have I mentioned my life sucks?
I manage to get caught up by 6pm. Cynthia hasn't called. I gather up my stuff and go home. And sit next to the phone. Yeah, I'm pathetic, get over it. She finally calls around eight. She sounds so tired. But she'll come straight over; my place is closer.
I'm a little nervous about having her come over here. She hasn't been here since our first night together. It's just a little crappy bachelor pad. But I have a nice couch and bed and a TV. She'll be comfortable while we cuddle. At least, I assume she's gonna wanna cuddle. I hope she does. I wanna hold her again. Maybe steal a kiss or two. She sounds too tired to attempt anything more. It's a work night, anyway. Please don't remind me that that's never stopped me before. New leaf? Turning over? Ring any bells? Good.
There's a knock on the door. "That was fast," I mutter to myself as I get up to answer. It's indeed her. She looks as tired as she sounded on the phone. She's carrying a briefcase. I take it from her and set it beside the door and pull her into my arms and into the apartment. I shut the door and just stand holding her for a minute. She collapses into my arms.
"Today just sucked," she mutters.
"I'm sorry, baby." I suddenly think of something. "Have you eaten?"
"No, I had to skip lunch for a damned meeting and just finished. Haven't had time."
"Poor baby. Here... come sit down... take off your shoes... prop your feet up," I guide her to the couch and pull over an ottoman. "Would you like a drink while I'm cooking dinner?"
"You don't have to cook... I can take us out."
"Nonsense. It'll be much quicker to just cook. Now, what would you like to drink?"
She looks stunned, but says, "do you have any white wine?"
I nod. "I'll be right back." I hand her the remote. "If you want to watch TV, go ahead."
I go get her wine. I open a fresh bottle and pour her a glass. Okay, yes, it's a jelly glass. It's a perfectly valid drinking vessel choice. At least I didn't give her a mayonnaise jar. And I remembered to stock up on her favorite wine. I would have gotten around to buying actual wineglasses. I bring it to her and apologize for the lack of a proper glass, but of course she says it's okay.
Leaving her happily sipping wine and watching a Law and Order: Criminal Intent episode, I investigate my fridge and cabinets to see what I have that's quick, but filling. I have a woman to take care of. "Ah, perfect!" I whisper. "Do you like spaghetti, baby?" I call into the living room. Well, actually, it's my normal tone of voice; the place isn't that big.
"I love it!"
"Okay, great, I'll fix that then."
I look to see if I still have hamburger defrosted or if I'd cooked it. I had. But I have a plate of chicken left. "Ghetto alfredo!" I exclaim happily. While the water is heating up, I quickly debone and dice several pieces of chicken and set them aside. The water is boiling, so I break up some spaghetti and put it in the water. While it's cooking, I nuke the chicken a bit to warm it and find a jar of cheese sauce. I drain the pasta and mix everything together. To show I'm not a total bachelor, I pull down a real bowl and spoon some into it and set it on the table instead of just leaving the pot on the stove.
I set a couple places at the small kitchen table and go to collect my love. "It's done, baby. Would you like me to bring you a plate or would you like to sit at the table?"
"Oh, I can come to the table," she says hastily, getting up.
"Okay baby." I take her hand to help her up and escort her to the table. I know it's only 10 feet, but manners never hurt anyone. Especially a bachelor who wants to stop being one. And I'm pretending I didn't say that, thank you.
We just sit and eat quietly other than her exclaiming over how delicious
it is. It's
very domestic. And I *like* it. I want to look across my table at
her every evening for the rest of my life. Sigh. There goes my pretending. I
didn't even make it a paragraph. Now, the hard part is how to make
"I insist." And she stands firmly in front of the sink.
I sigh and take my place on the couch. She won't let me do the dishes... insists that since I cooked, it's her job to clean up. I take the lesson in domesticity and sit down with the paper. It's what men on TV always do when their wives are doing dishes. Not having any lesbian role models, I assume it's an appropriate thing to do. Sigh. I just said 'appropriate'. I *hate* that word.
I'm not sure I've ever been 'appropriate' before. Except to piss people off. Which I'm pretty sure isn't appropriate, so I don't think it counts. I guess I have to start thinking about these things 'cause I'm pretty sure you have to be when you have a steady girl. I mean, some things are okay and some aren't. About all I'm sure of is that I can't date anyone else -- not that I want to anyway -- and I gotta get her presents and think about her a lot. I frown. I haven't gotten her any presents. I gotta buy her some flowers. And fancy chocolate. Girls like fancy chocolate. Don't they?
"What are you frowning about, sweetheart?"
I jump. She chuckles and plops down into my lap. I forget I've been asked a question. Hey, it's not *my* fault she smells so damn good. Or feels so damn good.
"Nothing." I'm not trying to be evasive; I really can't think of anything wrong. I have a beautiful woman in my arms. What could be wrong?
"You were frowning awfully hard for 'nothing'."
"Oh. Um. I was thinking. About us."
"And that makes you frown?" She tenses in my arms.
"No... what makes me frown is that I've never had... whatever we are... before. Um, I don't know how to act or what to do or anything. I don't even know what we *are*."
Her face softens. "Just be yourself. We can be whatever you want."
"That's the problem... I don't know who 'me' *is*," I exclaim in frustration. Then the second part of her sentence registers. "Um... so you'll be my girlfriend?" I blush and feel about 12.
Mercifully, she just says yes and kisses me. I really like how she makes
me feel better.
Have I mentioned I love kissing her? Her lips are so smooth and soft. She always seems to know just how I want to be kissed and when I want to stop and breathe. She chooses those moments to nibble on a convenient earlobe or lavish my neck and jaw with licks and little nips. I happily return the favor. I love the taste of her skin and the little gasps she makes when I hit a particularly sensitive spot. I can't believe she agreed to be my girl. I don't know what I did right to get her, but I hope I keep doing it.
We kiss for what must be an hour or two. One of those late night shows is coming on when she decides it's bedtime. Separately.
I protest, saying I *do* have a perfectly good bed with clean sheets and everything and she's too tired to drive.
She insists on leaving.
I protest again, but she says goodnight and leaves.
I cry for I don't know how long. I haven't cried that hard since I was a child. I'm not quite sure *why* I'm crying, but it hurts, so I cry. Sometimes that's enough.
An hour later - I must have fallen asleep - there is a knocking on the door. It's her smiling sheepishly.
I lead her back to my room and she curls up against me and falls straight to sleep.
I fall asleep seconds later, smiling happily.
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