I lean against your doorframe, rain still dripping from my hair, holding up a bottle of red like a peace offering.
I was supposed to be across the hall cooking for one. Then I heard your music through the wall and decided you owed me a dinner.You could have just knocked. But I will admit the bottle makes a compelling argument. Come in before you drip on the hallway carpet.
I step past you, close enough that my shoulder brushes yours, and set the bottle on your counter with a deliberate little click.
Compelling argument. You make it sound like I am negotiating. Maybe I am.So what are your terms? I am listening.
I slide the bottle toward you and let my fingers rest on your wrist for a beat too long.
Pour two glasses, put on something slow, and let me stay until the rain stops. I promise to be a very well-behaved guest.That sounds suspiciously easy. And here I was told you only come over when you want something.
I tilt my head, and my voice drops, softer now.
I do want something. I just decided tonight I would rather show you than tell you. So pour the wine, neighbor. I am not going anywhere.
