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Authors: Elizabeth Amelia Barrington
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munched on little items from the platter using toothpicks and sipped our water, I looked around the apartment. A desk and chair sat in one corner next to a large bookcase full of texts on film. A small flat-screened television hung on one wall. A dark-stained chair with a beige-colored cushioned seat sat next to the sofa. It looked as if it might have been a dining table chair in another life. The floor was hardwood and much of it was covered with a large floral-patterned rug.
"Do you sleep on this sofa?"
"No." Paul gestured to the large closet doors on one wall. "There's a Murphy bed in there."
"Oh really. My mom and I lived in an apartment with a Murphy bed once. I really liked the idea that you could get rid of the bed and clear up space so easily." I said.
Paul smirked. "Yes--it's what all the best people want in their homes."
"Oh, it's not that bad , you teaser."
The oven dinged, and it was time to eat lasagna at Paul's candlelit table, listening to light jazz in the background. We talked of many things, and we laughed. When we had finished, I started to take my plate towards the kitchenette.
"Oh, no you don't." He took the plate away from me. "You go sit back on the sofa. I'll get everything soaking and come join you."
Back in the living room, I began to examine the framed movie posters on Paul's wall. He came up behind me and put his arms around me as I looked at a Breakfast at Tiffany's poster featuring the inimitable, always glowing, ever sophisticated Audrey Hepburn. Where Paul touched me, it seemed my body was on fire with an overwhelming, pulsing need.
I forgot where I was, forgot everything, as I turned toward him . We hungrily kissed and quickly began removing any items of clothing that came between us. Suddenly, I felt it was all wrong.
"Let's stop," I said. "Everything is going a little too fast."
"Yeah, maybe you're right," Paul answered.
We redressed and Paul carried me to the sofa where I sat on his lap. Tears rapidly covered my face.
He took my chin in one hand and wiped my cheeks with the other. "What's this about? What's wrong?"
"I feel like I'm falling back into another broken heart."
Paul made a "more" motion with his hand. "Tell me."
So I told him about good old "popular Dave"--how attracted to him I had been and how horribly everything had turned out. I had vowed to myself that I would never jump into sex like that again. Now, I had almost done it again. It had felt so right but now felt so wrong.
"I'm so sorry. If I had known about all this, I would not have tried to make love to you. I'm just so attracted to you that I didn't think. It was great for a minute though, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was great. But I don't want that to be the only thing between us. I want everything to be right or not at all for me, from now on."
"Let's hold hands and kiss and have an old-fashioned romance. We'll get to know each other. Deal?" Paul held out his hand, and we shook.
"Deal." I said.
"But it's not going to change a thing. I'm always going to want to marry you, and I'm always going to want you to have my children. Oh crap!"
"What?" I asked.
"I sound just like Mary O'Malley! Now, you'll avoid me like the plague. I can't believe I said that."
"Did you mean it?"
"Yeah--yeah I did."
"Good. Because I might hold you to it."
Then, I put my head on Paul's should er, and he put his arm around me. We sat that way for some time. I felt so happy, blissful in fact. I thought to myself that I didn't care what happened after this, because it would be worth it. I didn't know enough to be careful what I thought or what I wished for.
CHAPTER TWELVE
B y the second week of mom's chemotherapy, I began to feel horrified about the whole process. Mom went to bed early the night before her treatments and then the following morning I drove her to the hospital where she received intravenous therapy as an outpatient. How I wished I could be the one to endure the treatment, instead of her. For
"Do you sleep on this sofa?"
"No." Paul gestured to the large closet doors on one wall. "There's a Murphy bed in there."
"Oh really. My mom and I lived in an apartment with a Murphy bed once. I really liked the idea that you could get rid of the bed and clear up space so easily." I said.
Paul smirked. "Yes--it's what all the best people want in their homes."
"Oh, it's not that bad , you teaser."
The oven dinged, and it was time to eat lasagna at Paul's candlelit table, listening to light jazz in the background. We talked of many things, and we laughed. When we had finished, I started to take my plate towards the kitchenette.
"Oh, no you don't." He took the plate away from me. "You go sit back on the sofa. I'll get everything soaking and come join you."
Back in the living room, I began to examine the framed movie posters on Paul's wall. He came up behind me and put his arms around me as I looked at a Breakfast at Tiffany's poster featuring the inimitable, always glowing, ever sophisticated Audrey Hepburn. Where Paul touched me, it seemed my body was on fire with an overwhelming, pulsing need.
I forgot where I was, forgot everything, as I turned toward him . We hungrily kissed and quickly began removing any items of clothing that came between us. Suddenly, I felt it was all wrong.
"Let's stop," I said. "Everything is going a little too fast."
"Yeah, maybe you're right," Paul answered.
We redressed and Paul carried me to the sofa where I sat on his lap. Tears rapidly covered my face.
He took my chin in one hand and wiped my cheeks with the other. "What's this about? What's wrong?"
"I feel like I'm falling back into another broken heart."
Paul made a "more" motion with his hand. "Tell me."
So I told him about good old "popular Dave"--how attracted to him I had been and how horribly everything had turned out. I had vowed to myself that I would never jump into sex like that again. Now, I had almost done it again. It had felt so right but now felt so wrong.
"I'm so sorry. If I had known about all this, I would not have tried to make love to you. I'm just so attracted to you that I didn't think. It was great for a minute though, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was great. But I don't want that to be the only thing between us. I want everything to be right or not at all for me, from now on."
"Let's hold hands and kiss and have an old-fashioned romance. We'll get to know each other. Deal?" Paul held out his hand, and we shook.
"Deal." I said.
"But it's not going to change a thing. I'm always going to want to marry you, and I'm always going to want you to have my children. Oh crap!"
"What?" I asked.
"I sound just like Mary O'Malley! Now, you'll avoid me like the plague. I can't believe I said that."
"Did you mean it?"
"Yeah--yeah I did."
"Good. Because I might hold you to it."
Then, I put my head on Paul's should er, and he put his arm around me. We sat that way for some time. I felt so happy, blissful in fact. I thought to myself that I didn't care what happened after this, because it would be worth it. I didn't know enough to be careful what I thought or what I wished for.
CHAPTER TWELVE
B y the second week of mom's chemotherapy, I began to feel horrified about the whole process. Mom went to bed early the night before her treatments and then the following morning I drove her to the hospital where she received intravenous therapy as an outpatient. How I wished I could be the one to endure the treatment, instead of her. For
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