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Once showered, he makes me coffee and delivers it to me. When I’m awake, and he’s in my room, I pretend I’m sleeping. Other times, like on the weekends, I’m really sleeping.
You’d think I’d strike up a conversation with him or at least bid him good morning as he puts the cup on my nightstand, but I’m afraid if I did, he’d stop the ritual of watching me and taking pictures of me.
I don’t know why he keeps taking pictures of me, but his doing it also warms my heart. My heart is very stupid, seeing as how I’m falling for the man who’s avoiding me.
It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m walking the few blocks to work rather than taking my car and raging along with everyone else also driving from point A to point B in New York. Besides, I love to walk on the busy city streets with all the people around me, most of them just like me, trying to get by the best they can.
Corrado, though, he’s not like me. He’s not like most of us.
The difference between him and the rest of us is that he rules his own world while we are having to obey the rules of the world we live in.
I’m sipping the coffee he made me, thinking about my mom, who I get to video chat with this afternoon. I haven’t seen or spoken with her in over a week, and I’ve called daily for an update on her progress. Her doctor approved a ten-minute chat today. If she does well after it, we can chat longer next time and move on to visits.
My phone pings with a message, and I tuck my hand into my purse and pull it out. Taking care not to run into someone as I cross the street on a pedestrian green light, I open the message.
It’s from Corrado.
He sent me a picture of me. I’m wearing the little black dress and sleeping on my side, and I think back, trying to figure out which night this was. Then recall the night I made him dinner. The morning after he ate me out. Since then, he’s kept his distance, and I didn’t intrude on his need for space.
What has my heart doing flips and my mind returning to the memory of Corrado’s face between my legs is that, in the image, his hand is on my thigh, fingers splayed, digging into my skin the same way they dug into it while he ate me out.
There’s something violently possessive about the way Corrado touches me.
Or perhaps that’s only my wishful thinking, when I have no business thinking about the man whom I’ve agreed to separate from in a few months’ time. It could be sooner. The contract said he’d dissolve the marriage as soon as his business is concluded or at the end of the summer, whichever comes first.
I wish his business dealings would stretch to the end of the summer.
People start bumping into me. I slip left and around the corner, lean against the building, and stare at the three dots under the image. Corrado is typing a message.
I wait and wait, and when nothing comes, I slide the phone into my purse, nicking my nail on something inside there. Curious, I pull out the black card. Corrado must’ve slipped it into my purse.
My phone pings again.
I lean against a real estate sign and read:
We’re attending several functions this weekend, and the balance on your end of the card is still zero.
Good morning, Corrado.
Good morning, wife. The card?
I’ve been busy at work and home. Do you like the mini-garden in the apartment?
I’d have liked it more if you used the card to buy the plants. When will you use the card?
The man can’t be distracted.
Saturday morning.
One of the things I need you ready for is a brunch on Saturday.
Okay, I’ll go early in the morning.
That’s not enough time to pick out your wardrobe.
No, but it’s enough to pick out a few dresses and an outfit for the brunch.
I want you to buy a whole wardrobe.
