I have rushed home from work tonight to put away shoes and stack magazines and pretend to be tidy for an hour or two, and I consider it extremely bad manners for the Little Cat to defile the litter box in the bedroom after I have just scooped it. John has just rung my buzzer, and I'm running for the Glade while she's doing post-poo laps and meowing loudly, and I can hear his footsteps on the stairs as I return the spray can to the top of the refigerator.
I pull open the door as he gets to the top of the stairs.
"Hey, it smells nice in here."
He drops his backpack on the floor with one hand while snaking the other around my waist to pull me to him.
"Hi."
Even though I am wearing platforms with the old I-sheared-them-too-short-to-wear-in-public cutoffs that he likes so much, I still have to go up on tiptoe to kiss him back. He is very tall.
"Hiiii," I say into his mouth.
We are standing just inside the door, kissing forever. We can't get enough of kissing each other. My arms are locked around his neck.
He slips his hands under my shirt and along my back. I am not wearing a bra.
"Nice," he murmurs, and moves his hands back to my waist. He slides his hands into the back pockets of my jean shorts and pulls my hips into his. "Nice."
I drop my head backward and he leaves kisses along my neck and, pushing aside the placket of my nondescript black polo shirt, he presses his mouth to the curve of my breast.
"Very nice," he says again.
Next: my SNF discovers that sweet spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and things get sweaty after months of celibacy (his, petulant, and mine, mystifying). The little cat pays a visit, creating cheap opportunities to make jokes about pussy.
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