The new boy was at my beck and call the weekend before I left. I felt absolutely spoiled. And, as if to counteract this, there was more than one conversation where he was adamant he could be a callous, arrogant asshole.
Believe me sweetie, I have no doubt. But let me enjoy the roses despite the thorns, OK?
The night before I left, he was dozing off while, for one of the few times sleeping with him, I felt my usual reading-before-bed ritual had to be followed. So I slipped out to the living room with Five Quarters of the Orange. After a half hour, I returned.
“Can I get you anything?”
I stopped, half way to the bed. I couldn’t resist.
“What would you get me?”
Even in their sleep, men seem to know when you’re making fun of them. The next sentence had a decidedly pouty air to it.
“I don’t know. Anything you want.”
I crawled under the covers and almost believed he was awake when his lips met mine for a kiss.
“I wouldn’t make promises like that. It could get you called an asshole pretty quick.”
He murmured and rolled over.
In the morning I relayed the conversation to him.
“You know, things like that could get you called an asshole.”
Really, I wear bitch so much better.