wednesday
Tamara pours a second glass of orange juice. The married student cottage isn’t very big, with only a “nook” instead of a real eat in kitchen, but that’s okay, she thinks. Better than residence coffins with people stealing your food.
Quentin may be great in the sack but he’s not much for cleaning. Smaller means less mess.
Or maybe more concentrated mess.
As she whisks the egg mixture she cocks an ear, but she doesn’t hear the shower.
It occurs to her that he might have gone back to sleep. And here she is making his breakfast. Setting the bowl on the galley counter she nips down the hall into the bedroom. Hearing his snores reignites her annoyance and she shakes him.
“C’mon Q. You’ve gotta get up, baby.”
He mutters and tries to roll away but she grabs his shoulders. “It’s morning. You want breakfast you gotta get up.”
He opens his eyes and smiles up at her. She loves his smile, but she’s gotta get going.
Quentin licks his lips seductively. “Hey gorgeous,” he says, nearly melting her resolve. “C’mon for a little cuddle first,” reaching for her waist.
Determination causes her to step back, just out of reach. “I can’t hon, I’ve got a 9:30 lecture. I’m making French toast. If you want some you’d better get your butt outta bed.”
Quentin gives her puppy dog eyes in a pouty face but Tamara just grins wickedly. Points her finger at him, “‘If you’re still in bed when I go I’m feedin’ your French Toast to the birds.”
He stares in horror. “You wouldn’t do that. Would you?”
She tosses her head and heads out the door. “Think what you like. Just remember, you were warned.”
She slams the door and returns to the kitchen.
He lays there a minute looking at the closed door. Hmm. Maybe she’s mad he was out so late last night.
She was sleeping when he came in. Least she acted like she was sleeping. If she’s mad, maybe she really would dump his breakfast out for the birds.
It wouldn’t even be a question if she knew he’d been up half the night talking to another woman. The frying pan wouldn’t be making French toast, it would be embedded in his skull.
Tamara would never believe it was just talking, but it’s true just the same. So. Better not push it. Not this morning, anyway.
Quentin stretches and hauls himself out of bed.
Into the shower, hoping she’s not mad enough to do that cold water thing again. He soaps up, letting the hot water pound him, helping relax tense muscles. It feels good as the tension starts to drain. They’re going to have to talk, maybe tonight. He tilts his head back and takes a gulp of water, swishing it around in his mouth, spitting. The head is a little tender but he’ll live.
Quentin clambers out of the shower stall and rubs himself down, winding the towel around his waist he steps into shower shoes. He opens the window to let the steam dissipate then moves on to the kitchen, where he admires Tamara efficiently tending the food cooking in the frying pan. Heaven.
Quentin comes up behind her and slides his hands around her waist. “Smells real good baby” he breathes in her ear and he rubs up against her. She wiggles free and whirls around to face him.
“Stop it Q– I’m cooking!”
He recoils as if slapped, unprepared for the fury. He sighs as he feels “mister morning” droop.
Tamara looks at his dejected face and softens her tone a shade, “I don’t exactly feel like getting burnt over here, Q.”
He holds up his hands in apology, “Sorry, Babe.” Looking somewhat sheepish he heads back to sit at the table. He downs the OJ in one, and pours himself another.
Tamara feels mean for a moment, but having to flip the French toast gets her over it. Another moment and she scoops the golden breakfast food and carries the plates to the table. The way his face lights up melts some of her anger.
As he drowns his breakfast with the syrup, he tells her, “Looks good, baby.”
When he takes a bite, moaning in rapture, she can’t help but laugh at her man-child. Tamara sips her juice, picking at her food.
She’s never been big on sweets, but he loves this stuff. She can pick up a cheese croissant at the coffee shop on her way in to class. After yesterday she just can’t afford to be late.
Having vacuumed his food Quentin looks longingly at hers, and she passes it over and drains her coffee as he dives in.
She gets up and hangs the cute little apron on the hook by the door. “Gotta go.” Opening the closet she grabs her jacket and slips into it but when she turns around Quentin is standing right there looking terribly contrite.
“I’m sorry I was so late last night, Babe.” he reaches for her but she steps backward into the closet. His face falls as he realizes that she’s rebuffing him again.
Now it’s her turn, “Now you just wait a minute. Don’t even think about laying a load of guilt on me. I do not have time to mess around with you this morning no matter how much I might want to. I have a 9:30 lecture and it’s after nine already.”
He turns away, and stomps out of the room.
Now her anger rears its head, and she calls after him down the hall, “You wanna mess around with me Q maybe you oughta try coming home nights.” Tamara grabs her purse and stalks out, slamming the door behind her.
She is mad. In the bedroom Quentin slumps in a chair.
He hates it when she’s right.
