The fact that nearly four hours later I was still daydreaming about it was utterly ridiculous. Seriously, we’d fucked. Twice. Why was I getting all worked up about a single kiss for heaven’s sake? But I was. He slept for nearly ten hours on my sofa and when he woke up he said he was feeling better. I made him another cup of tea, this time without whiskey, and a bowl of Count Chocula. He barely finished either since he had to call an Uber and get to work.Right before he walked out the door to wait at the curb for his ride, he grabbed me, pulled me close and leaned in. For the tiniest moment, I thought he might not kiss me, after all. But then he pressed his lips against mine. They were hard at first, tight, tentative, careful. But then they loosened, relaxed, as though they suddenly felt safe, as though they’d found home. He tasted of tea and chocolate cereal and toothpaste, since I’d let him borrow my toothbrush. I mean why not? We’d kissed the week before. It was practically the same thing, after all.
