Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Mark and I decided that it would be a good idea to meet in private this time. It’s obviously best that we not meet in my office again, so I suggested my apartment.
We could have gone to Mark’s, but mine is significantly bigger. His apartment is decent because of the side money he earns, but he’s still a PhD student, and his living arrangement reflects that.
When I have colleagues over, they’re often surprised by my home. Working at NYU provides a decent salary, but living in New York City is expensive. I can afford this large apartment because of my own side hustle as a poet.
I pause in front of my favorite award. It’s the first one I won, so it has a place of honor in my hallway. I even got the certificate professionally framed to maintain its integrity.
The prize for the award was only a hundred dollars, but the prize money was really inconsequential. Being chosen for the award was what started everything for me. Winning the contest gave me the confidence I needed to enter more contests. And now, I’m a renowned poet.
Not that I like to brag. Many of my colleagues have no idea about my writing background. I don’t intentionally keep it a secret, but I don’t bring it up in conversation, either.
People tend to act weird around me once they find out. My fellow professors think I can help them get published or gain entry into invitation-only contests for prestigious awards. No matter how often I tell them that’s not how it works, they still slip poems, short stories, and even full-length novel manuscripts onto my desk. It’s exhausting.
“You need to relax,” Mark comments, coming up behind me. “We have an hour until Mari is supposed to show up. If you keep pacing like this, you’ll have worn a hole through the floor before she arrives.”
I turn around and kiss him lightly. “I know…you’re right. Distract me?”
He grins. “Let’s not expend ourselves too early.”
I pout, but Mark crosses his arms over his chest. He has a point. Mari is coming over. I don’t want to presume that anything will happen between the three of us, but we have to be ready just in case it does.
It’s been a week since our meeting in the coffee shop, and I wish we could be with Mari more often. My hope is that after tonight, that wish will be granted. We’ll iron out some details and establish a plan for how we can get together.
Then, maybe one thing will lead to another…
My cock stirs in my jeans. Best not go down that train of thought right now.
Mark’s eyes dart down to my bulge then back up. “Excited already? We should distract you. In a different way.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s make dinner.”
“I thought we agreed on take out.”
Mark shrugs. “We’ve got plenty of time, and your fridge is fully stocked. Why not make some food? We talked about eating out less this semester, remember?”
I laugh. We did discuss that after we spent the spring semester and all of summer mostly ordering in so that we didn’t have to leave the bedroom. So far, we haven’t done very well with the resolution. Today is as good a time to start as any, I suppose.
Mark tugs on my arm. If we don’t do something productive, I’m going to continue to pace nervously. At least if we make dinner, we’ll have something home-cooked to eat with Mari when she gets here.
“Come on, babe,” he coaxes.
I reluctantly follow him into my kitchen. It’s full-sized, which isn’t common for a New York City apartment. We stand in front of my open pantry, trying to decide what to make.
“We have two options,” Mark finally determines. “Rice or pasta.”
“But what would we put with the rice?”
“Chicken?”
“And with the pasta?”
“Chicken? Or beef. You have both in the fridge.”
“Which do you think is the better option?”
Mark stares at the ingredients in the pantry. “I think pasta is the safest bet. We can make the sauce and everything.”
He starts grabbing cans and boxes. Mark is the chef in this relationship. He loves to cook. I can hold my own in the kitchen, but Mark can make a meal out of nothing. It’s one of the many reasons I keep him around.
“What do you want me to do?”
Mark kisses my cheek. “First, can you run down to the bodega and get some bread?”
“Absolutely.”
There’s a small store beneath the building next to mine. It takes me less than ten minutes to go there, buy two loaves of bread, and get back. When I return to the kitchen, Mark is standing over a pot of red sauce.
“Ah, perfect. Slice that up so we can toast it, please?”
“Of course. How is the sauce coming along?”
He kisses his fingers like a good Italian boy, even though he’s only a quarter Italian. “It’s delicious. Want a taste?”