everywhere, several un-rinsed mugs sit on my coffee table, a few pairs of underwear rest on the couch.
“What’s up?” I say, my voice impassive. It must be important if he needs to show up here.
“You look really sick,” he looks concerned as he looks down at my thick robe. He’s holding a small paper bag.
Just what I wanted to hear. I drum my fingers on the door, trying to act confident when I am really a mess on the inside.
“I’m so glad you could tell,” I say, my voice nasally.
He smirks. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
Why? He will definitely get sick if he takes one more step. Save yourself!
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I think it is.”
“Can’t you hear how nasally my voice is? How bad I look?” Where is my foundation when I most need it?
He scoffs. “Your voice sounds the same, what are you talking about?” That naughty grin makes an appearance, and I scowl at him. I certainly don’t need to put blush on.
“But you couldn’t look bad if you tried,” he adds, looking right at me. “Here, this is for you.”
Without giving me a chance to react, he hands me the paper bag and walks right in forcing me to back into the living room. The bag is heavy.
What is he doing? And why am I suddenly feeling nauseous?
Closing the door behind him, he analyses my apartment starting with the hydrangeas, to the yellow wallpaper, to the abundance of antiques. I use the chance to look at what’s inside the bag. It looks like a box, black and shiny. I take it out of the bag and hold it up. It’s beautiful. It’s heavy and feels handmade, with some fancy gold embroidery on the top cover. I open it up and I have to stifle a gasp that threatens to leave my mouth. The most beautiful wrapped chocolates, all in different colours and shapes. Gold, silver, green, red.
“Thanks, Tristan.”
He’s on the other side of the room, looking at the kitchen.
“I got the impression you like chocolate, I figured you can store your favourite chocolates in there or whatever.”
I guess he isn’t such a bad boss after all. He continues to looks up and down the living room and its timber floors.
“So this is your humble abode. It’s not what I expected at all,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Be very careful what you say next.”
He laughs softly. “It’s different, in a nice way. And I’m not just saying that.”
All of a sudden, my nose feels itchy again and I sneeze, the thick and phlegmy mucus inside threatening to make an appearance.
“Go sit on the couch,” he looks at me, his face deadpan.
“No it’s—”
“Sit,” he barks as he walks towards the kitchen.
Groaning under my newly blocked nose, I plop on the couch as I watch him manoeuvre his way around my kitchen. Just a few guesses but he manages to find the utensils, honey and green tea. He puts the kettle on, and drops a tea bag into the mug.
I can take care of myself, he doesn’t need to boss me around. Even though he technically has a right to do so.
Breathing through my nose as quietly as possible, I sit here, secretly giddy that he’s making a cup of tea for me.
After a few moments he comes back with the tea and honey, setting it down on the coffee table. Sitting on the couch with deliberate distance from me, he starts to pour the golden syrup into the hot drink when I grab the bottle from him. I see a cut on his wrist, it looks fresh.
“No, that will just get rid of its nutritional content, here let me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I flip the lid open and pour it into the spoon, eating it straight. Yum, it coats my throat in the most delicious way.
I put the spoon down and grab the mug of tea, blowing into the piping hot liquid.
“So, can I ask what I did to deserve this unexpected visit?”
He looks at me drinking the tea. “I landed my biggest event to date, and it happens to be a wedding.”
He doesn’t have to say anything else, because I know
“What’s up?” I say, my voice impassive. It must be important if he needs to show up here.
“You look really sick,” he looks concerned as he looks down at my thick robe. He’s holding a small paper bag.
Just what I wanted to hear. I drum my fingers on the door, trying to act confident when I am really a mess on the inside.
“I’m so glad you could tell,” I say, my voice nasally.
He smirks. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
Why? He will definitely get sick if he takes one more step. Save yourself!
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I think it is.”
“Can’t you hear how nasally my voice is? How bad I look?” Where is my foundation when I most need it?
He scoffs. “Your voice sounds the same, what are you talking about?” That naughty grin makes an appearance, and I scowl at him. I certainly don’t need to put blush on.
“But you couldn’t look bad if you tried,” he adds, looking right at me. “Here, this is for you.”
Without giving me a chance to react, he hands me the paper bag and walks right in forcing me to back into the living room. The bag is heavy.
What is he doing? And why am I suddenly feeling nauseous?
Closing the door behind him, he analyses my apartment starting with the hydrangeas, to the yellow wallpaper, to the abundance of antiques. I use the chance to look at what’s inside the bag. It looks like a box, black and shiny. I take it out of the bag and hold it up. It’s beautiful. It’s heavy and feels handmade, with some fancy gold embroidery on the top cover. I open it up and I have to stifle a gasp that threatens to leave my mouth. The most beautiful wrapped chocolates, all in different colours and shapes. Gold, silver, green, red.
“Thanks, Tristan.”
He’s on the other side of the room, looking at the kitchen.
“I got the impression you like chocolate, I figured you can store your favourite chocolates in there or whatever.”
I guess he isn’t such a bad boss after all. He continues to looks up and down the living room and its timber floors.
“So this is your humble abode. It’s not what I expected at all,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Be very careful what you say next.”
He laughs softly. “It’s different, in a nice way. And I’m not just saying that.”
All of a sudden, my nose feels itchy again and I sneeze, the thick and phlegmy mucus inside threatening to make an appearance.
“Go sit on the couch,” he looks at me, his face deadpan.
“No it’s—”
“Sit,” he barks as he walks towards the kitchen.
Groaning under my newly blocked nose, I plop on the couch as I watch him manoeuvre his way around my kitchen. Just a few guesses but he manages to find the utensils, honey and green tea. He puts the kettle on, and drops a tea bag into the mug.
I can take care of myself, he doesn’t need to boss me around. Even though he technically has a right to do so.
Breathing through my nose as quietly as possible, I sit here, secretly giddy that he’s making a cup of tea for me.
After a few moments he comes back with the tea and honey, setting it down on the coffee table. Sitting on the couch with deliberate distance from me, he starts to pour the golden syrup into the hot drink when I grab the bottle from him. I see a cut on his wrist, it looks fresh.
“No, that will just get rid of its nutritional content, here let me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I flip the lid open and pour it into the spoon, eating it straight. Yum, it coats my throat in the most delicious way.
I put the spoon down and grab the mug of tea, blowing into the piping hot liquid.
“So, can I ask what I did to deserve this unexpected visit?”
He looks at me drinking the tea. “I landed my biggest event to date, and it happens to be a wedding.”
He doesn’t have to say anything else, because I know
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