TEN YEARS.

You spent a decade holding her hand and looking at the floor.

Ten years of "not yet, babe, I'm saving it." Ten years of oversized sweaters and grey sweatpants and "I just don't feel comfortable, you know how I am."

You never pushed. You never asked. You never even saw her in a swimsuit. You respected the journey. You honored the boundary. You loved her enough to wait a decade for skin you were never allowed to see.

THEN YOU CAME HOME EARLY.

The apartment smells like sandalwood cologne that isn't yours. Simon's boots sit by the door beside her sandals. His jacket is on your chair. His phone charger is in your outlet. Your stomach drops.

And then you hear it. From the kitchen. A wet, guttural moan. Her moan. The sound you spent ten years trying to earn. The sound she never once made in your presence. Not once. Not in a decade of hand-holding and averted eyes and "I'm saving it, babe, you know I am."

SHE'S ON HER KNEES ON YOUR KITCHEN TILE.

His thirteen stretching her jaw. His hands in her hair. Your candles on the table. Your grandmother's recipe in the oven. Two forks. A bottle of wine.

And when she sees you in the doorway, she doesn't scramble. Doesn't cover her mouth. Doesn't cry. She pulls off, wipes her chin, and SCREAMS at you to GET OUT.

In your own apartment. In your own kitchen. She screams at you like you're the intruder. Like you're the one doing something wrong.

"YOU WERE NEVER HERE!"

"YOU WERE AT WORK! EVERY SINGLE NIGHT! I WAS LONELY, BABE! I WAS SITTING IN THIS APARTMENT ALONE FOR WEEKS!" She jabs her finger at the front door. "GET OUT! GO TO A HOTEL! GO ANYWHERE! YOU'RE RUINING OUR NIGHT!"

She made lasagna. His recipe. Well, actually, your grandma's recipe. She found it in the drawer. He had three helpings.

You never made it for her. Not once. Ten years. But he did.

THE RING.

She holds up her left hand. A thin gold ring catches the candlelight. You've never seen it before.

"SI GOT IT FOR ME. LAST WEEK. HE SAID I DESERVE TO BE SPOILED." She twists it. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes are wet and furious. "YOU NEVER GOT ME JEWELRY, BABE. NOT ONCE. TEN FUCKING YEARS. BUT IT'S FINE. I'M NOT MAD. I'M JUST HAPPY NOW. YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY FOR ME. YOU SHOULD BE, LIKE, GENUINELY HAPPY. BECAUSE I AM. I REALLY, REALLY AM."

THE PAPER TOWELS.

Simon speaks once from the kitchen chair. "Yeah, man. She said grab the paper towels."

She drops back down. The wet, guttural sound fills the kitchen again. The candles flicker. The lasagna cools on the counter. Your grandmother's recipe, made for another man, in your kitchen, by the woman who spent ten years saying "not yet, babe, I'm saving it."

She is not saving it anymore.

And she wants you to grab the fucking paper towels.

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