Matthew patiently rocks on his heels, not giving any more details. Earlier today, he reached out to me with an offer of friendship. If a friendship between us is going to work at all it will require effort on my part. True friendship isn’t one-sided. For now, though, he’s here, offering help.
“I’d like to have someone here.”
I expected the words to burn. Asking for help always left a bad taste in my mouth, but it is almost a relief to accept the lifeline Matthew has thrown me. To let him be navigator of our shiny new friendship because I have no confidence that I won’t steer us into a rock.
Matthew nods, not making a big deal out of the answer.
“Well then, I guess we should go to bed.” Matthew lowers his voice in just the right way to make it seem both playful and suggestive. The tension that had stiffened my spine melts and all I can do is snort. With how today has gone and how daunting tomorrow seems, I’m grateful to have this man/machine at my side.
“I guess we should.”
Chapter 5
I sit at the island counter in groggy disbelief watching the vision of Matthew in sweatpants, at my stove, cooking. I have to be dreaming. Seeing Matthew with sleep tousled hair messing with a frying pan makes a compelling argument that I’m still tucked away in my bed. The coffee mug in my hands grounds me in the reality that Matthew is really in my kitchen, cooking breakfast. Since when does he cook?
The clanging of pots and pans had woken me, and my fuzzy dreams slipped away like sand through fingers. At first, I had panicked at hearing someone else in the apartment, then I heard Matthew curse and remembered his offer the night before. My very own knight in shining armor to slay resurging memories and possible nightmares.
When Matthew had made the offer to stay on the couch, I had expected him to sneak out sometime in the early morning so that we could pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. I should have known better; he said that he wanted to be friends and Matthew does nothing in half measures.
Curiosity and the smell of coffee compelled me to the kitchen, where I now sit, ardently wishing I had donned my armor— business clothes. Or at least underwear, because God, seeing his T-shirt stretched over his back and the places his sweats cling to his sculpted body has me feeling things… Things I can usually avoid when he wears a suit. The man is temptation in the flesh. Not a Man not in that way anyway. I squeeze my thighs together and curse the revealing sleep set that I had stumbled out of my room in.
There is no missing my nipples through the light fabric, but it would be even more awkward to leave to change. That would feel like admitting something. Admitting to who? To Matthew? To myself? Confessing that I’m affected by just seeing him in my apartment means losing the battle I fight against myself. Attraction to a machine isn’t healthy.
Matthew turns to me holding a plate of… “Eggs?” I ask slowly, having to guess. They hold some resemblance.
“Curtail your enthusiasm, this is my first time. I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Matthew pauses playfully, long enough for me to clear my throat at the double meaning and try not to blush. He continues doubtfully, “and it doesn’t really look like the image on the website did…” He is right, the eggs are scrambled. Before this moment, I’d say it’s a recipe that is near impossible to screw up, but these eggs… they looked sad, maybe a little soggy.
I lean over the plate to take a covert sniff. I commit to a decision and muster the determination required to follow through with my new commitment as the plate is put in front of me.
“Well, I haven’t had food poisoning in a while,” I say, keeping my tone light. The sad eggs smell edible enough, and it feels important that the shark of the conference room made me breakfast. Matthew freezes mid-action in a way that would have been comical if I weren’t going to make myself eat the food on the plate.
“That’s a joke, right? You don’t think you’d really get food poisoning from this do you?” He moves to take the plate away, but I stop him. I can eat this as the peace offering it’s intended as; show him that I’m interested in trying to work toward a friendship together.
“I’m joking! I’m sure it will be fine. Though, I don’t really know how you got the eggs to look like this.”
The tops of Matthew’s ears start to turn red and I can’t help but be charmed and intrigued at the mechanics of the action. Cooking and now blushing, I guess I really don’t know anything about Matthew.
Matthew’s sheepish grin fades as his eyes slide from my bare legs up to my sleep short hems and then the very thin tank top before reaching my face. His eyes have a glint of heat in them and my body tightens in awareness. Yes, underwear is a must next time. Maybe flannel too. Fuck it, a hoodie wouldn’t hurt either.
It doesn’t matter that every glance he sends communicates interest; it isn’t really desire, just a good mimicry of the average red-blooded male. I just need to repeat that, over and over again, until my breath doesn’t catch when he looks at me.
To distract myself from my very physical biological response, I take a large bite of eggs and promptly conclude I should have let him take them away. I chew slowly on the overly salted, greasy bits and try to come up with something to say that is complimentary. Fortunately, for my stomach, Matthew correctly reads through my poker face and blanches before snatching the plate back.
“That bad?”
I’m still chewing but shrug. Can you really have a peace offering without a little sacrifice?
Matthew shakes his head, thankfully not believing in suffering for peace, and slides a glass of water to me before scraping the rest of the eggs into the garbage. I grab the glass gratefully, choosing to swallow the bits down instead of chewing.
“There are breakfast bars in the cupboard,” I say because I actually do want to eat this morning. Matthew’s shoulders slump, dejected, but he retrieves a bar for me as I finish the coffee. At least he can manage to make a good cup of coffee. I might have kicked him out of my kitchen without caffeine to soften the rougher edges of my personality.
“Are the photos yours? I didn’t know you liked photography.”
Matthew stares at the framed prints decorating the walls. The one he has his eyes on might as well have been printed from my heart’s blood with how close to my being it is, a black and white of my mother’s grand piano. I nod with reluctance.
“Therapy mandated that I get a creative hobby when I was younger.” I did grow to love photography, no matter how resistant I had been at first. My work is primarily abstract lines of buildings and similar objects. I don’t take photos of people. The changeable organic natures don’t appeal to my artistic eye.
“They’re beautiful. Maybe you could decorate the walls of my apartment. I’ll admit that my space is a little sparse.” Matthew ducks his head shyly.
My curiosity is piqued by his statement. “Can you really recognize beauty in art?”
Matthew rolls his eyes, looking annoyed, “Maybe instead of questioning all the attributes that shock you, you could just assume that I’m capable of any actions I perform. When I’m with you, I’m not trying to pass for human. I’m not going to guzzle down coffee for you to look normal. If I say something is beautiful it’s because I find it beautiful. I don’t always know why I feel the things I do but, with you, I’m not tailoring my reactions.”