I belonged to another man. I was in the home of another man. I was in the bedroom of another man. And yet, there I was, my lips pressed to someone else.
Joe's truck followed my driver to my home that evening, and once we'd pulled through the gate, we got out and walked up the driveway together.
"So did you decide on what you want to eat?" I asked him as we trekked through the remnants of snow. Joe kept his eyes on his feet as he spoke.
"Uh, not particularly. But you can never go wrong with pizza."
"Then we'll have pizza," I said as we reached the large front door. I pulled out my keys then, and as I fiddled with them until I found the right one, Joe said,
"This place is massive." It wasn't until I pushed the door open that Joe truly seemed surprised. "Wow," he breathed.
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We both walked in and I shut the door behind him as his eyes wandered the grand main entrance.
Of course over the years I'd gotten used to my home, so I didn't think much of Joe's reaction when we'd arrived. Still, it was incredibly lovely. The staircase was my home's main feature, as it was incredibly grandiose in its ballroom style design. The living room was filled with the finest furniture money could buy, and lit ominously by the flickering fireplace. There were statues, and paintings, chandeliers and marble floors; the house was a dream to anyone that entered it.
But it grew to be a nightmare to me.
"This is a lovely home," Joe said politely as his eyes wandered around.
"Thanks," I replied half-heartedly. "You can hang your coat on the rack."
I was excited to have a guest over that wasn't paid to be there; friendships were a rarity for me. Usually it was Wilmer that did most of the hosting and entertaining with his parties and events. But that night, it was my turn. And while it was not a party or some grand event, it was my decision that I was incredibly happy to make.
I just hoped that it would go well.
As Joe followed me into the kitchen, I was disappointed to find that our cook, Gustav, had already gone home for the night.
"Oh no," I sighed, already predicting that my first time hosting would fail miserably.
"Is something wrong?" Joe asked. I turned to face him.
"Our cook already clocked out," I responded. Joe cocked his eyebrows upward in surprise.
"You have . . . a cook?" He waved his hand then, dismissing the thought. "You know what? That's alright. I think we can fend for ourselves tonight."
"Are you sure?" I asked crossing my arms. "I mean, you might be able to fix cars, but are you sure you can fix a meal?"
Joe chuckled, his tone becoming humorous and sarcastic.
