Bradley doesn’t come over in the morning.
I tell myself I don’t care, but I make a full pot of coffee out of habit and pour two cups because I’m sure he’ll wait until the last possible minute before trotting over in those see-through boxers he favors. I stand at the sink and sip my own coffee, staring across the few feet separating our houses, staring into his darkened living room, waiting. It’s been a full seven days since we met and already it seems wrong that he isn’t over here by now, sitting at the breakfast bar with one knee up to his chest, blowing on the hot java and gazing at me with smoldering eyes over the top of his mug.
He’s stubborn. Just as stubborn as I am, and if he’s still waiting for me to say I’m sorry, he’ll never be over here again. I’m not the one who did anything
