close to talk in my ear. "We're not going 46
Gemini
by Chris Owen
to settle for just anyone, pretty. We're looking for a partner, not a quick lay." Then he kisses my cheek and steps back, like he's not said or done anything. "See you after work," he says softly.
"See ya," I agree, and then he turns and walks away, back to his shop. Oddly, I find the entire conversation reassuring.
There was a time that getting into the heavy, important parts of a relationship would send me running, but this time ... it makes me feel reassured that there's a point to this, that it's beyond sex and hanging out.
I think I like that.
47
Gemini
by Chris Owen
Chapter Six
I've been cleaning my apartment all day, and I've barely got my hair dry and tied back when there's a knock on the door. It's the first time I've spent my day off like this and I'm not sure I like it. Before the twins I'd spend my day off sleeping, going downtown for a bit, shooting pool. Lately I've spent my time watching Jamie play ball or meeting Paul for lunch—generally just hanging out with them. Today? I clean my apartment and cook dinner. Shocking.
All right, it's a one time only event, and it's for a good cause. The three of us have been easing off on the dating thing a bit—which is good, it wasn't supposed to go on forever. I suspect that this will be the last 'date' I have with Paul for a while, and I sort of want it to be a good one; I even got him a present. He's never seen my place, so it's all tidy in its own substandard way, and I made pasta.
I let Paul in and he greets me with the shy smile and a kiss that's anything but. I may be mildly addicted to his contradictions. Anyway, he's here and I show him into the living room—by letting him take two steps forward from the door—and he looks around, one hand tangling with mine.
I feel a little self-conscious, a little embarrassed. I know it's dumb, but when I compare my place with theirs ... well, it's not good. I live in a not so great area, have a tiny little over-priced one bedroom hovel that hasn't been redecorated since 1976. It's a far cry from their place, but Paul doesn't seem to care, which is nice. He's much more interested in the books on the shelves than the shelves themselves.
48
Gemini
by Chris Owen
We talk about his day and spend twenty minutes or so poking through art books left over from when I was taking classes, and he looks around the rest of the place while I finish getting supper ready. Doesn't take long—the kitchen is open to the living room, there's one bedroom, a bathroom, and a closet. That's it.
Kindly, he doesn't make up nice things to say. "Your tub is blue," he says as we sit down to dinner. "This frightens me."
We're eating in the living room, sprawled on the couch.
There's nothing wrong with the table, it's just us—we don't use the table at their place, either.
"Yeah. Well, aqua. At least it matches the sink." I wink at him and we spend a weird few minutes trying to figure out the designers of the 70's. Finally we just conclude that they were all on drugs, which also neatly explains polyester pants and the whole orange and brown color combination. It's a miracle my stove is white instead of olive.
We talk about cooking, debating gas ranges over electric—
it's a fast conversation since neither of us has used gas—and then we do the dishes. I'd leave them, but God knows when I'll be back long enough to get them washed before gross stuff grows on them. It should scare the hell out of me, the amount of time I'm spending at their place, but it doesn't. Not really.
"Want to watch a movie?" I ask, steering him not so subtly back to the couch. I even have one rented, just in case he says yes.
"Sure," he says, but he's not looking toward my ancient TV, and he's not interested in any movie. He gives me a 49
Gemini
by Chris Owen
shove and I land on the couch, laughing. When he follows me down I flip him over and tickle him until he squirms, both of us
Gemini
by Chris Owen
to settle for just anyone, pretty. We're looking for a partner, not a quick lay." Then he kisses my cheek and steps back, like he's not said or done anything. "See you after work," he says softly.
"See ya," I agree, and then he turns and walks away, back to his shop. Oddly, I find the entire conversation reassuring.
There was a time that getting into the heavy, important parts of a relationship would send me running, but this time ... it makes me feel reassured that there's a point to this, that it's beyond sex and hanging out.
I think I like that.
47
Gemini
by Chris Owen
Chapter Six
I've been cleaning my apartment all day, and I've barely got my hair dry and tied back when there's a knock on the door. It's the first time I've spent my day off like this and I'm not sure I like it. Before the twins I'd spend my day off sleeping, going downtown for a bit, shooting pool. Lately I've spent my time watching Jamie play ball or meeting Paul for lunch—generally just hanging out with them. Today? I clean my apartment and cook dinner. Shocking.
All right, it's a one time only event, and it's for a good cause. The three of us have been easing off on the dating thing a bit—which is good, it wasn't supposed to go on forever. I suspect that this will be the last 'date' I have with Paul for a while, and I sort of want it to be a good one; I even got him a present. He's never seen my place, so it's all tidy in its own substandard way, and I made pasta.
I let Paul in and he greets me with the shy smile and a kiss that's anything but. I may be mildly addicted to his contradictions. Anyway, he's here and I show him into the living room—by letting him take two steps forward from the door—and he looks around, one hand tangling with mine.
I feel a little self-conscious, a little embarrassed. I know it's dumb, but when I compare my place with theirs ... well, it's not good. I live in a not so great area, have a tiny little over-priced one bedroom hovel that hasn't been redecorated since 1976. It's a far cry from their place, but Paul doesn't seem to care, which is nice. He's much more interested in the books on the shelves than the shelves themselves.
48
Gemini
by Chris Owen
We talk about his day and spend twenty minutes or so poking through art books left over from when I was taking classes, and he looks around the rest of the place while I finish getting supper ready. Doesn't take long—the kitchen is open to the living room, there's one bedroom, a bathroom, and a closet. That's it.
Kindly, he doesn't make up nice things to say. "Your tub is blue," he says as we sit down to dinner. "This frightens me."
We're eating in the living room, sprawled on the couch.
There's nothing wrong with the table, it's just us—we don't use the table at their place, either.
"Yeah. Well, aqua. At least it matches the sink." I wink at him and we spend a weird few minutes trying to figure out the designers of the 70's. Finally we just conclude that they were all on drugs, which also neatly explains polyester pants and the whole orange and brown color combination. It's a miracle my stove is white instead of olive.
We talk about cooking, debating gas ranges over electric—
it's a fast conversation since neither of us has used gas—and then we do the dishes. I'd leave them, but God knows when I'll be back long enough to get them washed before gross stuff grows on them. It should scare the hell out of me, the amount of time I'm spending at their place, but it doesn't. Not really.
"Want to watch a movie?" I ask, steering him not so subtly back to the couch. I even have one rented, just in case he says yes.
"Sure," he says, but he's not looking toward my ancient TV, and he's not interested in any movie. He gives me a 49
Gemini
by Chris Owen
shove and I land on the couch, laughing. When he follows me down I flip him over and tickle him until he squirms, both of us
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