Page 95 of My Boss

“And can’t you get in the mood a little and figure out for yourself if it’s a good time to cuddle or not?”

He frowns.

“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy.”

“Because why?”

He looks straight into my eyes. He is silent. He gives the impression that he is fighting something inside.

“Jan?” I urge him because something there is taking too long.

He takes a deep breath.

“All right,” he finally replies. “I’ll do my best. But you’ll remember to tell me directly that you want something, OK?”

I sigh. I can’t get this guy. After all, it will be unnatural, stiff, and devoid of emotion, as if he is doing something by force, just because I ask him to. Couldn’t he do that on his own, of his own accord, of his own need? I’m not saying he has to read my mind, but sometimes you just have to glance at someone, and you can already see from them that they need something. But apparently, he can’t do that.

“All right.” I give up. “In that case, can you give me a hug now?”

“I can.” He puts the sponge back on the shelf. “And then I’ll wash your breasts and buttocks, OK?”

I roll my eyes. The old con-man.

“OK,” I reply with a smile, at which he embraces me, and I snuggle into his chest. Oh, how pleasant. I don’t comprehend how anyone can dislike hugging.

According to the map, we have a four-and-a-half-hour trip ahead of us. It may not be long, but somehow it feels strange to drive for so many hours without any music in the background. I wonder what it will be like to sit in silence with Jan while time drags by forever, but as soon as we leave the city for the highway, I fall asleep.

I wake up after two hours. My heart is pounding like a hammer, I think I had a bad dream. I don’t remember much of it. Somehow, I was arguing with Jan…

I feel that I’m slimy, my mouth is dry, and my lips are chapped, and that can only mean one thing.

“Did I sleep with my mouth open?” My voice is hoarse from sleep, and I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

“Yes.” Jan doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“And did I snore?”

“Yes.”

Oh, shit.

“Don’t tell me I was talking in my sleep?”

He doesn’t say anything.

So be it.

“So, I was talking. Anything specific?” I’m embarrassed because I know how it may have sounded. Toska recorded me on a dictaphone when I spent the night at her place after an exam. A veritable babble interspersed with cursing.

“From a few unintelligible sentences, I only caught the exclamation, ‘Fuck you, old geezer!’” he says.

Goodness, total trailer trash.

“My body reacts to stress this way.”

“So yesterday must have been a highly stressful day for you. Last night, you sat up abruptly and for two minutes forty seconds conducted a monologue full of juicy epithets directed, I guess, at your parents.”

I feel like sinking into the floor mat.

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