Her eyes don’t meet his, instead focusing on some spot on the door frame. “Can I come in?”
He knows then how it will go. A hug, a few sobs, a steaming cup of Earl Grey. A stupid, funny movie on late night cable, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. A touch that on a moment’s notice becomes electrically charged, an unremembered transition from the couch to the bed, a mediocre fuck that substitutes desperation for finesse. An exit as teary as the entrance.
He knows that this is what will happen, that it was set in stone from the moment she knocked on his apartment door, maybe even earlier.
He says, “Sure, come on in,” and gestures her inside.
Oddly enough, my first reaction to this was a smile. Nicely written.
Second reaction? “Oh god, please don’t ever let that be me.”
Glad you liked it. I think everyone winds up in that situation sooner or later, though — maybe not with the awkward sex, but with the inevitability. That feeling when your flesh runs cold, and you realize you just crossed a bridge and burned it behind you without even knowing you had done it, and all you can do now is travel the road.
‘Course, it could just be me. I tend to assume a universality to my own experiences. Heh.