Page 23 of Come Back To Me

“But, they’d also think I’m a nutter.”

“That’s beside the point. You said nut,” he said. “There was just something. I looked and I knew. That’s not happened to me before, so I decided to explore it.”

By the time we reached my apartment, I felt better about my new boyfriend. Thank God I stopped for that bikini wax after the Market this morning.

David undressed me as soon as we walked through the door of my apartment. We didn’t even make it to the bed. We consummated our new relationship with ten wonderful minutes, during which he looked strained. He told me later that he tried to last longer but my body just pulled everything out of him.

“You’re like sexual magic,” he said.

“It’s always like that in the beginning,” I told him. “But then something changes.”

He was lying on the floor where we’d landed when we fell over naked and kissing. He propped his head up on his elbow and looked at me intently.

“What do you mean?”

I suddenly wished I could take back my words. I slumped down, turning my face to the front door and away from David. I sounded too cynical sometimes, that’s what Ann told me, what Posey my London best friend used to tell me.

“Come on,” he urged. “I want your thoughts, English.”

“All right.” I leaned up on my elbows and he reached out to caress my breast. So familiar.

“In the beginning of relationships, things are exciting. The sex is new, and the touches are new. You’re addicted to everything about the other person because it’s all fresh and untainted. Then monotony kicks in, the fighting about stupid things and the very same thing you found exciting becomes…irritating. Boring.”

“I call bullshit,” he said. “When you love someone nothing gets old.”

I wanted to laugh, but the sincerity in his eyes choked off my humor. Who was I to take this boy’s belief? Someone else would take it eventually, and then he’d know, but until then he had to learn the hard way. I lay back down on the hard floor and stared at the ceiling. It was one of those popcorn ceilings that looked like a skin disease. I’d never lain on my back in bed because I didn’t want the popcorn skin disease ceiling to be the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.

“Why do you like being a bartender?” he asked.

I blew air out through my pursed lips. How did I explain something like that? I had a degree in hospitality management, and yet I had no desire to leave the bar for a more prestigious role in the restaurant business. I’d been offered all sorts of positions and had turned each one down.

“I like the way the bar sounds,” I said. “The tinkling of ice in a glass, the smell of the liquor, the foam the soda gun leaves on top of a drink. It’s all soothing. You can come to work and there’s a formula for what people need. Not to mention the people. I like to watch them, listen to their lives without being involved in their lives. They’re like friends but without the hassle.”

David was laughing. He held his naked belly he laughed so hard.

“You have the personality of an artist, you know that?”

“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.”

“Sure you do. You just haven’t found it yet.” He said it with so much conviction I started to consider all the hidden talents I might have.

“One day you’ll wake up and want to make something. Mark my words. Maybe it’ll be a painting, or maybe it’ll be a baby with me.” He shrugged. I punched his arm and he rolled on top of me, my shoulder blades digging into the wood floor. “I know what we could make right now,” he said, kissing my chin. I lifted my head so he had access to my neck.

“We could make—”

I shoved a hand over his mouth so he couldn’t say the words. “Don’t,” I warned him. “We are not a cheesy eighties movie.”

He started to sing “I’ll Make Love to You” by Boyz II Men while I cringed and tried to roll out from underneath him, but in the end, he kissed me so well I lost the will to escape.

David lived in a one-bedroom condo called Hillclimb Court, so close to Pike Place Market you could feel its pulse through the walls. It was the type of building architects in the eighties thought was cutting edge. It reminded me of an office space or a parking garage; all steel and concrete with a private courtyard to shield residents from the tourists that perused the street outside. To add some much needed creative flair, they threw in a wall of glass tile.Ooh la la!The residents made an effort to warm the place up with plants and that went a long way. It had a parking garage/greenhouse vibe. David’s unit faced the Puget Sound where you could see the Olympic Mountains spread out in front of you like nature’s buffet.

I was expecting something small and dingy, perhaps a place where he had roommates and a stained brown sofa with cigarette burns. But, it was none of that. It was industrial. I imagined the light was beautiful when it came in through the large west-facing windows. Brick walls, concrete floors, Edison lights that hung above the kitchen glowing yellow. He had copper pots and pans, and he drank water out of mason jars, which I wasn’t surprised about. There was art hung tastefully on the walls, oil paintings of female nudes. And his one piece of furniture was an oily looking leather sectional that faced the television. I was especially impressed when I searched for a video game console and found none. David flicked a switch and a fire jumped to life below the television. He made us espresso while I looked around and we sat near the fire to drink it.

“You’re wondering why I drive such a shit car and have such a nice place,” he said.

“Yeah, I suppose I am.” I set my espresso cup on the floor next to me.

“It’s my aunt’s place. She rents it to me.”

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