Page 39 of The Homemaker
“Stop!”I squealed as Murphy chased me through the living room, around the sofa, up the two stairs to the dining room, and around the table in only his black underwear and white crew socks.
I wore his Vikings T-shirt, and I may have suggested the Packers were a superior team.
“Take it back, or I’m going to peel that shirt off you and lock you out of my place,” he threatened.
We froze on opposite sides of the table in a standoff. He faked in one direction, but I reacted justas quickly as Marvin Gaye sang “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)” from the turntable.
“This place is mine for another five days,” I said, legs wide, body rigid and alert, ready to bolt in either direction.
Per our agreement, we spent every afternoon having sex. Once the sun set, we were platonic friends who ate dinner together and took leisurely walks around the lake. Then we retired by ten each night in our own beds.
Nothing felt real with Murphy. Reality was overrated.
We were silly and playful one minute, and physically ravenous the next. The sex was in a whole other league.
He liked my cooking.
I enjoyed watching him shape a boring piece of wood into something beautiful.
But mostly, we enjoyed the simplicity of each day. There was a perfect balance of work (he worked), play (sex), time alone, and deep conversations as friends. Our mutual love for older music spurred long talks about how times had changed, the shifting of priorities, and the age of the internet and online dating compared to how our parents and grandparents met. We imagined what the world would be like in thirty years.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, faking a right around the table, but then he jumped over it, taking the runner and wood bowl in the middle with him.
“Ahh!” I screamed, then giggled as he trapped me in his arms, kissing my neck while I squirmed.
When his lips hovered over mine, I surrendered and waited.
Say it.
“Hi,” he whispered before capturing my lips in a deep kiss. Then he took me prisoner, pinning my back to the topof the table, shoving down the front of his underwear and lifting the ugly Vikings shirt while settling between my legs.
“Yes …” I closed my eyes for a second when he buried himself inside of me. God, it was heaven.
Oldies playing on vinyl.
Chicken in the oven and the aroma of rosemary and thyme in the air.
And the cringy yet laughable realization that we did not shut the blinds. It wasn’t the first time that Rosie didn’t have to pay for porn while she washed dishes. When I turned my head, she gave me a smile that said, “Get it, girl.”
“Best. Renter. Ever.” Murphy sighed, collapsing on top of me after we surpassed our orgasm quota for the day.
“In your review, I will say you exceeded my expectations as a host. Filled all my needs and did so with enthusiasm.”
He laughed. “What will I say about you?”
“Don’t tell me. I want it to be a surprise.”
“A surprise it is.” He stood, pulling his underwear back into place, as I hopped off the table and headed straight into the bathroom.
“Disinfect the table before dinner,” I hollered.
“On it.”
After using the bathroom, I grabbed a shirt from the bedroom along with leggings.
“Found my Packers shirt. I knew I brought it,” I said, handing Murphy his Vikings shirt after he returned the all-purpose cleaner to its spot under the sink.
“You look much better in purple.” He smirked, pulling the shirt over his head.
