he’s on the floor in front of the television, playing atari games like a little boy, while i watch Out of The Past on my laptop in the bed. retro, in our different ways. he’s my own personal anti hero, scowling and up to no good like the best of my favorite film noir leading men. i’m his jill valentine, he says.
we’ve both been so busy lately; this is the first day we’ve had to be lazy in weeks. i’m spending it at his place. surprisingly, we haven’t had sex. there’s something nice about the domestic familiarity that lets you just be together. it’s… comfortable. he’s comfortable.
i pull out an earphone when he screams fuck! and jumps up off the carpet, but he’s not talking to me. he’s mumbling something about qotiles and zorlon cannons and having almost had it as he starts to storm out of the room, empty beer bottle in hand. he casts a glance back at me, sees me watching him, his face breaks into a smile at his own fury.
he comes over, kisses me on the head, tells me to stop laughing at him, that it’s not funny. (but it is)