Love Of Lust

Chapter Fifteen

Becky's POV

The next morning, I came down to the kitchen with a smile on my face. 

Riad returned my "good morning" somewhat distractedly - I wasn't sure what I expected him to say, but it certainly wasn't the next thing that came out of his mouth.

 "Last night," he said. "That can't...we can't let that happen again." 

"What do you mean?" I knew exactly what he meant, but I didn't want to believe it.

 "We can't blur the boundaries," he said. "We're in a business arrangement. It's not very...it's a bad idea to let things get so muddled." 

"I thought you agreed that it didn't matter." 

His eyes looked sad, but determined. I knew I wasn't going to really talk him out of this, but I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I didn't try. 

"Becky, I'm sorry. I know it's been fun. It's not personal. You're very lovely. I have a good time when we're...together. But it can't keep happening. We have to control ourselves." 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight him, to bite and kick, throw things at him - I wanted to do every irrational thing that came to my mind, but instead I just stood there, very still, staring at him. Nodding.

He watched me for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

 "Okay," I said, in the most neutral voice I could manage. I turned and disappeared into my studio, where I proceeded to scribble so hard into a new pad of paper that I tore through five sheets before I stopped. - 

After that, things were very quiet. We rarely spoke, dodging each other in the main rooms and sleeping three feet apart. Thank God for that massive bed. I was beginning to think that things would just stay like this forever - well, not forever.

 For the remainder of the year, at any rate. I learned to dread the weekends. Things weren't so bad when I was alone, but I couldn't even focus on my art when I knew he was in the apartment. Thankfully, he started to spend more and more time away from home, even when he wasn't working. I never asked where he was. 

Sometimes, he wasn't even home by the time I went to bed. One Monday morning, I came downstairs to find that he was still in the kitchen. Shit. It was a holiday. I'd completely forgotten. I tried to look away and walk past him to the fridge, but I could feel his eyes on me and I knew he was about to say something.

 He said, very deliberately and coldly: 

"Would it be too much of a burden for you to wash the dishes that you use?" I slammed the fridge closed. 

"Are you referring to the single bowl I left in the sink last night?" 

"And the glasses the night before, and the plates before that..." 

He set down his coffee mug very deliberately. 

"It's always something. I don't think it's unreasonable of me to expect-" 

"They had to soak!" I glared at him. 

"They wouldn't have to," he said, "if you'd just wash them as soon as you use them." 

"Oh my God. I can't believe we're having this conversation." He sighed.

 "I'm just trying to make it a little easier for us to live together."

 "No, you're trying to make it easier for you to live with me."

 "You're more than welcome to let me know if there's anything I can do to make your life easier," he said, in the flattest tone possible.