A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 36 | excruciating moody swings

In the streaming sunlight, he stood.

Standing against the towering glass windows in a white towel tucked around his waist.

His biceps flexed over his torso as he drenched droplets of water that ran down his healing bruises with a medium-sized white towel.

My mouth watered at his defined muscles, well-sculptured abdomen, and the cherry flavor floating from his recent shampoo.

Seeing him almost in nothing was the first time this week since he made sure we didn't cross paths for the past few days.

He appeared at past midnight for his naps and disappeared at past midday in a continuous circle for the whole of last week.

It wasn't decent to abandon one's guest in a strange neighborhood, but Dwain Horton did an added surplus and was always moody and nasty when confronted about it.

Tied up in a four-wall condo this long with nothing enthusiastic to do in the epitome of boredom, most days; I took a long stress-relieving bath, held my hair in a high ponytail, didn't wear makeup, and flung a sundress over my head.

One which matched the highest heels in my closet and complimented my deception.

Some virtues that urged me to be above the world and look at the happenings from another perspective didn't fail to overpower me.

With the blink of an eyebrow and a shift in eye focus from my thoughts to my husband, or better still, my roommate, his baby hair ran to his cut brows, brushing his eyes in soft and curling spirals.

His rhyming movements paused at the instant his sea-blue eyes caught up with mine, taking a graceful glance at me.

This was his first eye contact with me in the span of a few days after our traumatic argument.

I couldn't dare to hold those eyes which were void of any emotion in mine.

I wished for one thing whenever Dwain was around; a time machine that could bring me back to my normal life, one which seemed promising no matter the stakes.

"We are going out."

His voice was stern.

His lips hardened into a thin line as his eyes swirled to his last activity.

Finally, he addressed me.

What took him so long to talk to me?

I'd waited for numerous days for him to say something to me, but he didn't.

In a quest to trap the expression on his face, my sight wandered to his tanned skin.

Did he realize the extent to which his silence broke me on many levels?

Did he take note of my heavy eyes?

"Instead of staring at me, get dressed, and save time." He walked out of me and retired to his closet. "You have to accompany me."

I placed my feet on the rug, slid into my flip-flops, and covered my exposed arms with my bathrobe.

My throat went dry real fast, no words on my tongue.

Yet, weird noises escaped my throat and liberated a handful of thought-out words. . . shaking ones.

"Where to? I. . . I should know right?"

He was yet to respond to my questions when his muscles flexed at the closeness of his white shirt to his torso as he choked his broad shoulders and bulging arms with the fabric.