Page 126 of Demo
I follow her up the stairs and as soon as she turns the key in the lock to open the apartment door, I hear Kennedy barking. He rushes us as soon as Lizzie pushes the door open and he must be surprised to see both of us, because he’s uncontrollable.
“Easy boy,” I say as I crouch down and throw my arms around him as he jumps on me, licks my face, and spins around in my arms. “I’ve missed you, too, buddy.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Lizzie grumbles over her shoulder as Kennedy gives her zero attention. “I’m only the one who feeds you every day. Walks you. Carries your shit in a plastic bag back to the house. Let’s you sleep in her bed—”
“You let him sleep in the bed?” I ask as I stand, still scratching Kennedy between the ears.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a habit that was supposed to stick,” she says as she shuts the door behind me.
The apartment looks the same, and while it’s familiar, there’s also a disconnect. Like she’s invited me into her apartment and I’m an outsider visiting. As if we didn’t live here together, happily, at one time.
I fucking hate it.
We both kick off our shoes and shrug out of our coats, leaving the wet stuff by the door. “The bottom of my pants are all wet from the slush,” Lizzie says as she makes her way to the bedroom, already unbuttoning her pants. “I’m just gonna change. How are your pants?” She looks around at me as I look down and pull up one leg, bent at the knee, to see a good few inches of dark denim. “There’s a pair of your sweats here, I’m pretty sure,” she says as she turns and heads into the bedroom. “Just, give me a sec.”
Kennedy is scratching at something in the kitchen as Lizzie swings the door shut behind her, but it slowly creeps back open, and I see her slink out of her jeans. I watch like a creep as she pulls them down her hips, exposing her silky panties fitted around her ass cheeks and thighs. She sits down on the edge of the bed as she pulls each leg the rest of the way out of her jeans and tosses them into the corner toward the direction of the hamper, but I guarantee they didn’t make it in. God that used to piss me off.
Then she stands back up and pulls her T-shirt over her head and I see her soft stomach and sides, and her ample breasts tucked into a black bra. My cock twitches.
Calm the fuck down, buddy.
She pulls an old Blink-182 T-shirt over her head and walks out of view, then I hear a dresser drawer open and close, and a moment later she comes out wearing a pair of black leggings, and hands me a pair of sweats, oblivious to the little peep show I just got.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I start to head into the bedroom, then think, screw it. I unbuckle my belt right there in the living room, undo my fly and shuck off my jeans, pull my shirt over my head, then, just for good measure, pull off my wet socks.
“Where do you want me to put these?” I ask, forcing her to turn and look at me standing there in my boxers. I catch her eyes dart down my body, briefly, before she answers. I’ve done nothing but work these past few months, to keep my mind off shit, and I know my body is reaping the rewards.
“Just, uh, put them in the hamper,” she says. “I’ll wash them and get them back to you.”
I oblige, Kennedy following me every step of the way, before pulling on the sweatpants, which hang off my hips a little. “I’m not sure if I have a shirt of yours around here,” she says, and I simply shrug. “It’s OK. I’m not cold.” I flop down on the couch, suddenly feeling a little dominant.
This is my space, too, damnit. This is my apartment, my wife, my damn dog.
I prop my legs up on the coffee table and grab the remote, throwing one arm over the back of the couch as I power up the TV and look back at Lizzie, her back to me as she opens up a cabinet. “Should I not offer you a drink?” she asks and, surprising me, pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey, as opposed to just grabbing a beer from the fridge.
I don’t answer her, watching as she reaches up to a higher shelf for glasses, her shirt riding up and I catch another glimpse of her form. She grabs two glasses then turns around and looks at me, waiting for me to answer.
“I’ll take a drink,” I say.
“You sure?” She arches an eyebrow.
I nod. “I can handle it,” and she nods back, knowing alcohol was never really my problem.
Lizzie comes around the side of the couch and sits opposite me, folding her legs under her. Kennedy hops up on the couch between us.
She puts one glass in the crook of her elbow as she opens the bottle and pours a serving into the other glass, passing it to me. Then she pours another hefty serving for herself before capping the bottle and putting it on the coffee table.
We both sit there looking into our drinks, I swirl mine around. “What should we toast to?” I ask, not looking up at her, but hearing her laugh.
“No idea,” she says.
Finally, I raise my glass, “To shitstorms!” I cheer, and she laughs some more, and it sounds lovely. “To shitstorms,” she clinks my glass, and we both down our drinks.
***
“Who would acshually pay tree-hundred dollars for that shit?” Lizzie slurs as we watch another episode ofAmerican Pickers.
“Just because you don’t appreciate it doesn’t mean someone else does. I mean doesn’t. I mean … you know what I mean,” I attempt to answer.
