Step two: don’t let him touch me. Well, little touches are okay, his arm pressed against mine as we brush our teeth at the bathroom sink, a hand on my back when he passes me in the kitchen, his leg alongside mine beneath the dining room table. But that’s it, nothing more. No hands on my knees, squeezing to get my attention. No holding hands. No hugs or kisses or anything like that. Not even a goodbye kiss when he leaves in the morning—I’m conveniently in shower as he walks out the door.
When he comes home from work, he wants me; I can see it in his eyes. But I’m not ready to give in yet. It’s harder to resist when we’re alone, though, so I suggest we go out. It’s Friday night, why not? Dinner and a movie, my treat. Before he can complain, we’re back in the car, me tucked into the passenge
