NICOLE
I brush my teeth hard, trying to scrub the faint, lingering taste of him from my mouth. The minty paste is a cold shock, but it can't erase the memory.
Next to me, he's already in the large shower, washing himself with a detached, efficient grace. I finish and step into my own stream of water, the events of the last hour playing on a loop behind my eyes.
We finish at the same time. He wraps a towel around his hips and walks into the massive walk-in closet. I follow, pulling on simple cotton shorts and a t-shirt—clothes that feel like a shield.
He dresses in clean, dark lounge pants and a grey t-shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders. The air between us is thick and heavy, charged with everything we aren't saying.
We move to the living room where the food tray sits. The silence is a physical weight as we sit on opposite sides of the low table. He picks up his chopsticks, and I mimic the action, my appetite gone.
