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Shuffling out of the bathroom, I find my handbag on the floor under the bench at the foot of his bed, so I fish out a hair tie to throw my hair into a ponytail. Rifling through the bedding on the floor, though, I can’t find my clothes. All that’s here among the mess of the bedding is the shirt he wore last night, which doesn’t make sense because it got taken off by the door when we first came in and I could swear it was thrown out there.
I put his shirt on. It’s big on me so it’ll do for a modicum of modesty.
I resist the urge to make his bed, figuring he’ll probably change the sheets anyway. Or have a maid do it. We certainly did dirty them last night.
Besides, I don’t live here, and don’t need to be my hall pass’s maid the way I’m a live-in maid at home.
This thought vibrates in me for a brief moment, and I acknowledge it. Yeah, I have felt like a live-in maid lately. The townhome isn’t large, but I like my space to be clean and organized. I hate clutter. I have standards and I’m busy, so maybe it’s time to have someone in once a week for deep cleaning since it’s not like Adam can do all those things.
Though, if he started pitching in a little with the things he can do, like putting things away after he uses them, a cleaning service might not even be necessary. Even a little help from him would make a difference.
I jokingly sang Barney the Dinosaur’s clean up song the first time he stayed over for a weekend. He laughed it off like it was a joke as he tidied, but I worked at a daycare center part-time when I was in college and that song worked like a charm to get toddlers to put things away. I was half-serious because although Adam seemed to have it together pretty well, it was like I fit the default role of cleaning up from early on. And that isn’t what I’m about. Or… it wasn’t. I grew up in a house where both parents worked, and Mom didn’t have to come home and do it all. She and Dad took turns cooking and once we were old enough, me and my brother were added into the rotation. We all cooked, we all cleaned. There weren’t girl chores and boy chores, either. Dad taught me to use the snow blower and lawn tractor and he ironed his own shirts. Until Bryan got really sick. Then I took on everything for a while. I shake those old thoughts off.
Adam and I bought one of those robot vacuum cleaners when we moved into the house, and I can keep up with the mopping. We have one of those furnaces with the air cleaners, so dusting is manageable, but maybe it’s time for him to pitch in on laundry. Would it be too much to ask for him to wipe the sink down after he shaves in the mornings? To not leave toothpaste in the sink? To bring the dishes out of his office when he’s coming to the kitchen anyway? I’ve seen him fit snacks on his lap on the way to his office, why not use the same lap for the dirty dishes when he comes back out instead of letting them pile up until I decide to clear them out?
I’m feeling so neglected in my relationship that I’m starting to feel bitter and petty about things I wouldn’t have cared so much about before.
And here I am, still in my hall pass’s apartment, letting petty thoughts invade. I shove those thoughts away, grab my purse, and venture out of Derek’s room.
He’s frying eggs while wearing just a pair of tight, blue boxer briefs.
Mercy!
He catches me ogling him. I clamp my mouth shut and smile.
“Coffee?” He gestures to a single serving coffee maker. “I put a cup there for you. Plenty of choices in the drawer.”
I put my bag down and pull on the drawer under the coffee maker, revealing a variety of tea and coffee choices. I pick a dark roast Colombian pod and open the top of the coffee maker.
“Good choice,” he says as I pull the exact same used pod out of the coffee maker before putting the new one in.
He sips from his mug and then leans over and kisses me quickly before turning his attention back to the eggs he’s scrambling.
My brain feels a little scrambled, too, as I look around.
Definitely a corporate apartment / hotel suite feel to this place in daylight, too. Kind of sterile. But it is spotless and drenched with light, which is nice.
I press the brew button and watch the coffee pour into the mug for a few beats before I ask, “Oh, where are my clothes?”
“Threw them in the washing machine for you,” he says.
“That probably wasn’t necessary.”
He shrugs. “How else would I get to admire you wearing my shirt? Seein’ you in my shirt all sleepy and cute was part of the fantasy.”
I laugh.
He goes on, “Seemed like you were ready to bolt so figure doing the laundry will keep you here another hour at least.” He shrugs.
I bite my lip and wag my finger at him.
“So? You ready to bolt, little bunny?” he asks and abruptly hooks an arm around my waist, yanking me to him.
I wince, placing my palms on his chest hoping it’ll soften the blow. “Um… about last night, Derek? We should talk.”
He throws his head back and laughs as he lets go of me and twists the burner off, moves the frying pan, and pushes the button down on the toaster. “Let me guess,” he says, “You don’t usually do things like this.”
As I shake my head, heat floods my face. “No. Never.”
