how to get out of the spot I’d already put myself in.
After several minutes of silence, broken only by my sounds of gratitude and satisfaction over the food, Frankie spoke up as she stared into her wine glass.
“Do you think you’re a sex addict?” she asked in what appeared to be complete seriousness.
I nearly choked on my last piece of asparagus. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell.” I wiped my mouth and set the napkin on my plate. “But why?”
She shrugged, looking almost timid about the question. “You seem like such a nice, normal guy. I mean, college and the computer degree. You’ve got money and a successful band career, and you don’t appear to do drugs or be an alcoholic. But…the women. There is always a woman on your arm. Typically a different one. I’m willing to bet there’s a well-worn walk-of-shame path from your door to nearly every bar parking lot on the Cape.”
My eyes must have bugged out several inches, because she instantly covered her moth.
“Shit!” she yelled into her hand. “I’m not usually this rude. I promise. I don’t even swear this much. Ever. I’m a teacher for … Jesus…” She stood, taking our plates with her to the sink. After dropping them in the basin, she stood with her hands on the edge of the counter. She titled her chin down and took a deep breath.
Leaving my seat, I walked over to meet her and placed my hand in the middle of her lower back. I’d been meaning to do that. “Don’t be sorry. You’re right, you know. Until today, you’ve only seen that one side of me. I can’t be mad at you for drawing painfully obvious conclusions, can I?”
“Why are you showing me the other side? The writer side. The articulate side. Especially…” Frankie looked up at me as she trailed off, seeming to consider if she wanted to continue her thought.
“Especially what?” I refrained from kissing her again, like I so badly wanted to. I wanted to listen to what she had to say.
“If you don’t want a girlfriend.” Frankie chewed her lip as she brought up my insinuation from earlier that a girlfriend was the last thing I wanted. “People only share things they usually try to hide with their friends or significant others. Do you want to be friends with me? Is that what…all this…is about?”
I exhaled sharply—almost comically—through my nose. “I don’t want to be friends with you.”
Frankie turned from the counter then. I didn’t move the position of my hand, which meant once she was facing me, my hand was now resting on the soft curve of her waist. She kept her eyes on mine and I watched color bleed into her cheeks as if someone had a dropper of red coloring somewhere and dripped some on her skin.
“Then,” she said softly, “what do you want to be?” She swallowed hard, and I did the same, unable to look away from her.
The sliver of air between our bodies was so thick with anticipation; I knew I had to either kiss her or back away to avoid the suffocation that threatened. There was a high inside that moment, though—one I’d never experienced before. I barely ever paid attention to kissing girls, never mind the moments leading up to the kiss. I almost wanted to stay there forever with Frankie—suspended in the moment of our expectations—before any of them could be put to the test. She blinked, though, and reminded me that I had a move to make, and I’d better make the right one.
“I want to kiss you again,” I admitted in a whisper, barely recognizing my own voice. It sounded the same, I guess, but the words themselves were unfamiliar to my tongue—their meaning causing it to swell slightly as I leaned in.
Frankie’s lips parted as mine brushed up against hers. Before the kiss was complete, her mouth moved against mine. “You scare me,” she whispered, a slight tremble behind it.
“You scare me ,” I whispered back as I moved my hand to the back of her neck and pulled her mouth against mine.
There was a
After several minutes of silence, broken only by my sounds of gratitude and satisfaction over the food, Frankie spoke up as she stared into her wine glass.
“Do you think you’re a sex addict?” she asked in what appeared to be complete seriousness.
I nearly choked on my last piece of asparagus. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell.” I wiped my mouth and set the napkin on my plate. “But why?”
She shrugged, looking almost timid about the question. “You seem like such a nice, normal guy. I mean, college and the computer degree. You’ve got money and a successful band career, and you don’t appear to do drugs or be an alcoholic. But…the women. There is always a woman on your arm. Typically a different one. I’m willing to bet there’s a well-worn walk-of-shame path from your door to nearly every bar parking lot on the Cape.”
My eyes must have bugged out several inches, because she instantly covered her moth.
“Shit!” she yelled into her hand. “I’m not usually this rude. I promise. I don’t even swear this much. Ever. I’m a teacher for … Jesus…” She stood, taking our plates with her to the sink. After dropping them in the basin, she stood with her hands on the edge of the counter. She titled her chin down and took a deep breath.
Leaving my seat, I walked over to meet her and placed my hand in the middle of her lower back. I’d been meaning to do that. “Don’t be sorry. You’re right, you know. Until today, you’ve only seen that one side of me. I can’t be mad at you for drawing painfully obvious conclusions, can I?”
“Why are you showing me the other side? The writer side. The articulate side. Especially…” Frankie looked up at me as she trailed off, seeming to consider if she wanted to continue her thought.
“Especially what?” I refrained from kissing her again, like I so badly wanted to. I wanted to listen to what she had to say.
“If you don’t want a girlfriend.” Frankie chewed her lip as she brought up my insinuation from earlier that a girlfriend was the last thing I wanted. “People only share things they usually try to hide with their friends or significant others. Do you want to be friends with me? Is that what…all this…is about?”
I exhaled sharply—almost comically—through my nose. “I don’t want to be friends with you.”
Frankie turned from the counter then. I didn’t move the position of my hand, which meant once she was facing me, my hand was now resting on the soft curve of her waist. She kept her eyes on mine and I watched color bleed into her cheeks as if someone had a dropper of red coloring somewhere and dripped some on her skin.
“Then,” she said softly, “what do you want to be?” She swallowed hard, and I did the same, unable to look away from her.
The sliver of air between our bodies was so thick with anticipation; I knew I had to either kiss her or back away to avoid the suffocation that threatened. There was a high inside that moment, though—one I’d never experienced before. I barely ever paid attention to kissing girls, never mind the moments leading up to the kiss. I almost wanted to stay there forever with Frankie—suspended in the moment of our expectations—before any of them could be put to the test. She blinked, though, and reminded me that I had a move to make, and I’d better make the right one.
“I want to kiss you again,” I admitted in a whisper, barely recognizing my own voice. It sounded the same, I guess, but the words themselves were unfamiliar to my tongue—their meaning causing it to swell slightly as I leaned in.
Frankie’s lips parted as mine brushed up against hers. Before the kiss was complete, her mouth moved against mine. “You scare me,” she whispered, a slight tremble behind it.
“You scare me ,” I whispered back as I moved my hand to the back of her neck and pulled her mouth against mine.
There was a
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