It’s Not Me, It’s You
When Dominic picked me up, he asked what I wanted to do for dinner. I used to say “you!”
Instead I directed him to my favorite greasy Chinese take-out place. We watched a movie and drank cheap red wine. He kept scooting closer to me on the couch. I silently cursed my stomach for not delivering the silent-but-deadly flatulence it normally produced after a double helping of deep-fried orange chicken because then maybe he wouldn’t have kept trying to sit closer to me on the couch.
