Pleasurable Expectations

t w e n t y - f i v e

While it was a surprise to me that Jeremiah was on my doorstep on this late Saturday afternoon, I couldn't pretend like I didn't know why he was here. For the past few days, anytime a text message from him popped up on my phone, I would respond with a short message, the conversation dying by my fingertips. Whenever my phone would ring and I saw his name, I would let it go to voicemail. The only response he would get from me was a bland text telling him that I was sorry I missed his call.

The conversations I had with my friends and family planted a seed of doubt, one that I couldn't shake no matter how hard I tried. Whenever I saw anything coming from him, a nagging feeling would poke the back of my mind, the feeling planted there by everybody but me. Everybody but him.

Even in knowing that outside opinions were what caused me to feel this way, I couldn't bring myself not to blame him, as well. Because to me, it was partly his fault. These speculations would have never come about if he just let me in, let me know his family and his life. But he didn't.

This is why I never let anybody know what's going on in my relationships.

Jeremiah sat across from me. His suit jacket was draped lazily over the back of my couch, the two blues fighting each other. One of his legs was bent at the knee, his sock-clad ankle resting on the opposite knee. His arm rested along the couch's back, his fingers a whisper away from my shoulder.

I sat a few feet away from him on the couch, both of my legs pulled under me. I was tucked into the corner of the sofa, one half of my back fully supported. The other half found the arm of the couch digging into my spine.

Our body language reminded me of our first date. Instead of the familiar warmth of Jeremiah's thumb stroking my inner thigh, his hand lingered awkwardly between us as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself. I wanted nothing more than to trace the lines of his face, to have my fingers run over his skin in a path that had become nothing short of muscle memory.

"I've got some pizza in the kitchen if you're hungry." I removed myself from the couch. "You just got off work?" I disappeared into the kitchen before he could respond. I almost couldn't stand to be near him with the awkwardness that lingered in the air between us.

"Why are you being like this, Ki?" Jeremiah questioned when I returned to his line of sight, two plates now in my hands.

I placed the plates down on the glass table in front of us, a sigh leaving me as I rejoined him on the couch. "Being like what?" I grabbed my plate and brought my pizza to my mouth, the perfect excuse for me to not talk.

"Like this," he vaguely stated, his hands gesturing towards me. "I haven't seen you in days! Yet, here you are falling into yourself like—"

"I'm not falling into myself," I denied. I threw in an unconvincing chuckle for good measure.

"You could not get further away from me on this couch right now." His foot dropped to the ground before he scooted a hair closer to me. His hand dragged across his mouth, his voice soft as he said, "You're acting like we're strangers."

My chewing slowed as I drank him in. Jeremiah was looking at me with an unmistakable expression of questioning. His eyes darted around my face, them never settling in one place for long, like if they didn't keep searching, they would miss the answer.

I swallowed before admitting, "Lately, I feel like we are." I put my plate back on the table, the pizza I was once so excited for an afterthought.

"But why?" he asked, a subtle force in his tone. "Is it because I've been at work hella? I know it's been keeping me busy lately, but that's because I'm actually—"