Page 57 of Woman on the Verge

“That was fast.”

“I know what I like,” he says.

He comes up behind me, nuzzles—nuzzles!—into the back of my neck, his breath hot. I drop my phone in my purse.

“You do know what you like,” I say.

“Let’s go sit at the kitchen table like respectable adults. I have a good bottle of wine.”

“Respectable adults? I didn’t know you were into role-playing.”

“Ha ha. Speak for yourself, woman.”

I follow him to the kitchen, wrapped in a throw blanket from his bed. His kitchen is small, but there is a round table with two chairs. I sit in one, knees pulled to my chest, while he pours our wine.

“Try this,” he says, handing me a glass.

I take a sip.

“Mmm,” I say.

“Like liquefied jam, right?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m glad you like it. We would have had to break up if you didn’t.”

“You have a lot of conditions,” I say. “And ‘break up’ implies we are in some kind of relationship.”

I throw in a teasing laugh for good measure, though I really am increasingly concerned about our differing expectations.

“Aren’t we?” he says, confirming my fears.

I take a long sip of wine. “Elijah, I’m not exactly looking for a relationship.”

“And yet you came up here to see me.”

“Well, you are very good looking.”

“And ‘nice,’ right?” he says, air quoting thenice.

“Right.”

He takes his own long sip of wine. “Can I ask why you’re not looking for a relationship?”

“Because relationships are terrible.”

His eyes go wide. “I think you must be more damaged than I thought.”

I laugh. “Aren’t we all more damaged than we thought?”

“Touché.”

He sits across from me, sets his glass on the table, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Seriously,” he says, “what’s up with you and relationships?”

“I’m a very complicated person, Elijah.”

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