He barely had his beer, me my passionfruit frizzante and our waitress had just turned away from our table after getting our food order when the interrogation began.
“I wanted you to do this in your time, at your pace but after watchin’ you go wherever the f**k you went in my apartment I’m seein’ I can’t let you do this in your time and at your pace. So, right now, you’re gonna tell me about your Mom,” he ordered.
I looked anywhere but him, took a sip of my refreshing, delicious drink and tried to get my wits about me after experiencing the drama with Mitch which included a side order of my Mom at the same time trying to figure out a way to do anything but tell him about my Mom.
Unfortunately, I did this with my left hand resting on the table. Therefore, I found my left hand stretched halfway across the table and my fingers laced with Mitch’s.
Mitch’s fingers laced with mine felt nice. And not a little nice.
A lot.
Damn.
I put my glass down and looked at our hands. Then I looked at Mitch.
“I don’t think –”
His fingers squeezed mine. “Tell me.” His voice was very firm.
I decided first to try bitchy. “It’s really none of your business.”
He shook his head. “I know you’re filtering this information so you don’t have to deal with it so I’ll keep tellin’ you until it sinks in. Mara, you’re gonna be in my bed and my life, and when you get a new one, I’m gonna be in your bed and your life. And, cluein’ you in, you might take a good look at things and notice you’re already in my bed and my life. So, since I intend for that to keep goin’, I’m gonna have to know about your life. Not what you’ve built for the now but what you survived to get to the now. So,” his fingers gave mine another gentle squeeze, “tell me about your Mom.”
I glared at him then informed him, “You’re filtering information too, such as me explaining about boundaries and then me telling you that you have to move on.”
“I’m not filtering, sweetheart. I’m ignoring that shit because it’s whacked. Now, tell me about your Mom.”
“It’s not whacked,” I replied.
“It is,” he returned then pushed, “Tell me about your Mom.”
“It is not.”
Yet another finger squeeze and then, “Mara, baby, tell…me…about…your…Mom.”
My head tipped to the side and my eyes narrowed. “You’re very stubborn.”
“Tell me about your Mom.”
“And annoying.”
“Tell me about your Mom.”
“And bossy.”
“Mara, your Mom.”
“And you can be a jerk.”
“Mara –”
I rolled my eyes and said to the ceiling, “Jeez, all right, I’ll tell you about my Mom.”
This was not me giving in. This was my new strategy. I decided that maybe he should know about my Mom. Maybe, even though it was clear he was always alert, very insightful, often figured me out and already knew a lot about me, maybe he was somehow blind to my Two Point Five-edness.
So I decided to let him in on it.
I took another sip of my frizzante, put the glass on the table and launched in, not looking into his eyes, finding anywhere to look but him as I re-colored the Mara he thought me to be.