We argued. It ended with me storming out of his apartment, carrying the latest issue of Marie Claire, a greasy bag of croissants and orange juice. We'd spent the night together, engaging in satisfying sex, discussing my latest obsession -- Brokeback Mountain -- and figuring out if we should stay in bed all day today. Well, this morning he happily went out to pick up my Sunday essentials, but when he came back he looked upset.
"Here," he said, thrusting the bag of croissants into my hand. He then walked to his kitchen, angrily grabbed a glass from the cabinet and slammed it on the table. "What kind of person are you?" he asked.
Umm.,.what the hell? I sat up (I was lounged out on his couch, bare legs outstretched, admiring my pedicure when he'd returned). "Okay, what did I miss?"
"A lot. I'm tired of this."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I was feeling very frightened to the point I pulled my legs up to my chest and morphed into a protective ball. "Steven, what is going on?"
He paced the room. "Zaftig, you've got running around, changing my schedule for you, and you're just not letting me in."(He actually said this; I'm not paraphrasing.)
Okay, we've just had sex last night, we gave each other massages, and then fell asleep to the soothing sounds of Cole Porter. Trust me, I let you in, literally. "Okay, I thought we decided that we liked things this way," I said.
"I need some time to myself, could you leave?" He didn't want to talk, he just wanted me, my magazine, juice and croissant out of his abode.
Oh, it was hasty blur of gathered belongings, angry Weitzmans stomping on the floor, and a very acrid "Don't fucking call me," and a slam of his door.
So he fucked up my morning. No one fucks up my Sunday morning. With my greasy bag of goodies and a smiling, air-brushed MAriah Carey on my front seat, I headed north on Lake Shore Drive at 10 am. I cursed him as I manuevered past shitty drivers, newspaper salesmen, and various people in their Sunday's best. How dare he ask me to leave?!
As soon as I opened the door to my apartment, I undersood. He'd probably thought long and hard while getting my breakfast. She only wants sex, he probably thinks. Isn't this spectrum reversed? Shouldn't I be the one feeling like this? Shouldn't I be the one wanting a deeper relationship? Shouldn't I be the one left out?
I think it's time, guys.