He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A Monday in July, 11:24 AM
Chopping onions has its perks, especially when the sting in your eyes feels strangely therapeutic.
I slept in today for the first time in a while and woke up craving a clubhouse sandwich. Now I'm enjoying my time alone in the little yellow kitchen.
Until the front door opens at my back.
"I'm here to kidnap Patrick, hon. Is he ready?"
Sigh. Raveena.
I don't pause my vigorous chopping; the onion mound on the cutting board is starting to look like a small hillock. "He's on a safari hunt for his hat," I tell her.
It's Monday, an unusual day off for the two of them, but they've planned for it. Raveena is whisking Pat off to see some old country singer they both adore from the 1960s. A part of me envies their escape, their ability to just...drive away from Middlebridge for a day.
Raveena's steps come around, her presence filling the kitchen, then over my shoulder with the scent of honey and spice.
"That's some interesting chopping technique you've got there," she comments, leaning in to inspect my work.
Normally, her comments would have me rolling my eyes, but today, I'm oddly serene—must be the ten-hour sleep acting like a buffer.
"Thanks for the critique, Nurse Patel," I say, finally setting the knife down and turning to face her. "I'll have you know; this is avant-garde."
Her gaze zeroes in on the makeshift bandage encircling my forearm, tattered remnants from the gala night.
"No more asking—I'm cleaning that. Get on the island."
With a sigh, I think about telling her to leave me alone but I'm both too tired and too rested to act on it.
"I'll be right back," Raveena says, heading toward the garage with a purpose.
I wash my onion hands, dry them on my jeans, and hop up onto the kitchen island like a patient awaiting a diagnosis.
When Raveena returns, the first aid kit in her hands is an extension of herself—35 years of nursing distilled into one small, battered box.
She begins by washing her hands, then takes my arm and carefully unwinds my attempt at first aid, tsking under her breath.
"You've done quite a number on this." Her experienced hands make quick work of the tape and gauze. "Why aren't you at work today, hon?"
"Mrs. Jones cancelled my shift," I say.
She'd called here last night and told me I wasn't needed today. I'd been about to ask why my shift was cancelled, but she'd hung up.
Raveena uses a cotton ball with antiseptic on my arm. I can't see exactly, but it stings. "Would you like to come with us today? To the concert? I'm sure your uncle would be pleased to have you."
