He comes into my condo like he lives here,
too, just walks in and closes the door behind him, setting the
grocery bag on the chair by the phone. “Can I get you something to
drink?” he asks, as if this is his place and I’m the one
visiting.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say, even
though I’m not. I’m still shaking inside and I feel grubby hands
all over me. When I move away from him and stumble over my own
feet, he reaches out for my arm. “Don’t touch me.”
It comes out harsher than I intended and he
frowns, almost a pout. I turn away from those eyes, those lips. “I
need to take a shower.”
“Okay,” he says. I keep one hand on the wall
to steady myself. “Where do you want me to put your stuff?”
I point at the kitchen as I pass by it. I
hear him gather up the bag, a rustle of pap
