Page 66 of Fake As Puck
“We’re almost out.”
“We?”
He pauses, realizing what he said. “I’m almost out.”
I smile at my remark. Got him.
He said we, and I felt something flutter in my chest at the casual assumption that my preferences matter in his grocery decisions.
In the produce section, I’m reaching for apples when he comes up behind me to grab something from a higher shelf. His chest brushes against my back, and for a moment we’re pressed together, surrounded by the smell of fresh fruit and the low hum of refrigeration units.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move away immediately.
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.
We stand there for maybe three seconds longer than necessary, and I can feel the heat of him through my t-shirt. Can smell his cologne mixing with the clean scent of his laundry detergent.
Then someone’s cart rattles past us, and the moment breaks.
That evening, we order Thai food and eat it on the couch while watching some action movie that’s probably terrible, but it doesn’t require much attention.
I steal the throw blanket and curl up on my end of the couch, pulling my feet up under me. West settles on the other end, but somehow during the movie, we drift closer.
Not intentionally. Not obviously.
But by the time the credits roll, our legs are pressed together, and I can feel the warmth of his thigh through my yoga pants.
He doesn’t move away. I don’t either.
Instead, we sit there in the glow of the TV screen, supposedly watching the movie but really just hyperaware of every point where we’re touching.
“This is stupid,” I say during a particularly ridiculous action sequence.
“So stupid.”
“Why are we watching this?”
“Because you picked it.”
“I did not pick it. You picked it.”
“You said you didn’t care what we watched.”
“That’s not the same as picking.”
“It’s basically the same.”
“It’s absolutely not the same.”
We bicker about it for a few minutes, but there’s no heat in it. It’s just an excuse to talk to each other, to fill the silence that keeps threatening to become loaded with things neither of us wants to say.
During a quiet scene, I almost lean into him. Almost let my head fall onto his shoulder.
I catch myself at the last second, straightening up and pretending to adjust the blanket.
From the corner of my eye, I see him glance at me, and I wonder if he was thinking the same thing.
“I should probably get some sleep,” I say when the movie ends, even though it’s only ten-thirty and I’m not tired.
