Tread

June 14

Leo and I have something in our genetic makeup that attracts us to bars. Bars and hotel rooms. I've got four more days in Dublin and so far I think I've seen every bar in the city and could draw a photograph-worthy picture of Leo's hotel room. That is why we decided to hit the Guinness Factory today, something different and fun. Too bad Dublin's weather is predictable while my clothing options continue to remain unacceptable. It's been raining for the last week; the kind of rain that makes rain jackets useless and umbrellas a joke.

"Are you okay?" Leo asks as he shakes out his coat and hangs it on the hook beside the pub booth. "You look like death."

"Pretty sure I only feel slightly better than I look." Slouching in a pub booth, I'm beyond tired, soaked to the bone, and the thought of stepping even a foot outside to take a cab back to Leo's hotel makes me want to cry. My jeans are plastered against my thighs, t-shirt a second skin. Numbness spreads to my fingertips, calluses on my toes, and curves up and around my bare neck.

"Can you order me something hot?" I ask as I drip a puddle on the table and suppress the urge to wring out my hair in a glass just to see how much water its retaining.

"Tea?"

"Have I ever drunk tea in front of you?"

His lips lift in a smirk. "Hot Toddy. Two lemons."

"Mind reader."

He turns and leaves. I groan low. It's been two days since I started sleeping in Leo's bed, and I doubt the pattern is going to change anytime soon. My only concern—and really, it's nothing major—is that I still have no fucking clue what I'm doing. Less than no fucking clue. We call, we text, we have sex, and when we're not having sex, he works and I write or we watch TV or drink. It's a weird, comfortable pattern that I would be fine with if it had a label.

Dating, Booty Call, Boyfriend and Girlfriend just don't fit what we're doing. Because, again, I have no clue what the fuck we're doing. I run between 'I'm young. Live and be free. #nolabels' and 'What if he's the one? What if I get pregnant? What if I change my last name to Pananan? Raiqah Pananan.' My emotions are even worse, swaying from extremes: insanely, stupidly happy to rocking in a corner terrified.

Leo puts up with my crazy only because the sex is so good. We always come, or he's just good at faking it. Of course, the steady stream of dick means epsom salt baths and freezer cold panties. My mind can keep up with his sex drive, my body cannot. My clothes are a little looser and my body's becoming very limber.

But there's more.

This feeling that we've only scratched the surface of whatever we are. Our sex is as physical as it is mental. He speaks to me in code, actual code, and I recite Arabic poetry my father forced me to memorize as I run my hands over his body.

Amazing.

There are bad times too, though. Life can't be all mind blowing orgasms and sexy conversation. We've fought twice now. An argument about my penpal, Ji-hoon, because he scrolled through the messages and found the sexts. An issue of privacy and fidelity early this morning that felt more suited to a two month relationship than two week. Or the other, about how he leaves the toilet seat up all the time after I nearly fell into it in the middle of the night. Stupid, silly arguments that Em and Kate tell me are milestones in a relationship.

Leo's ex-wife and daughter don't even factor into what we have, just like my leaving and going back to school in Michigan doesn't. We have formed a bubble that covers Dublin and nothing outside it. It makes it a little easier for me to retire into fantasy, where Leo is my age mate and the only thing we really need to worry about are the condoms running out and the drug stores being closed.