Page 218 of Terms of Exposure
"You're very passionate about deli meats."
"I'm passionate about justice."
I watched her tear into the new slice, cheese stretching in long strings she wound around her finger with practiced ease. The TV droned on—the host, Derek, explaining why a wine fridge was a necessity for a bathroom—but I couldn't care less.
This.
This was what I almost lost.
Not the sex, though that was spectacular.
Not the power exchange, though that grounded me in ways I still didn't fully understand.This—pizza on the couch, stupid arguments, her laugh filling the rooms I hadn't known were empty.
"Oh, here it comes," Emma said, pointing at the screen. "The raccoon reveal."
On cue, one of the contractors tore into the wall. A shouted expletive followed, bleeped out by the network censors. The camera cut to the interior designer, already on her phone.
"I told your mom we were watching this tonight," Emma said.
"Oh, god," I groaned.
"She's already texting." Emma held up her phone, messages stacking in real time. "She's very concerned about the structural damage. And whether the raccoon had babies."
"Did it? I don't remember."
"Season three, episode seven." She gave me a solemn look. "We don't talk about the babies."
"That bad?"
"Derek cried." She leaned forward for emphasis. "Derek!"
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I glanced at the screen—my mother, of course.
Mom: Is Emma watching?
Emma followed my gaze. "Jesus, that woman is impatient." She waved her pizza. "I'm eating, Rosie. Give me a goddamn minute."
I choked on a pepperoni.
"She's going to call," I warned.
"She wouldn't."
My phone lit up. Mom—Incoming Call.
Emma groaned. "She did not."
"She absolutely did," I confirmed, leaning forward to decline the call.
With grease-slick fingers, I typed:She's eating. She'll text you. Relax.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Mom: I don't need to relax. I need to know her thoughts on the raccoon situation.
Mom: This is TIME SENSITIVE, Damien.
Mom: The structural integrity of that wall is COMPROMISED.
