When Preston, an adorable 6’4 brooding theater regular with dark features and a captivating smile, asked Mike what “sort of stuff I was into,” he said, “She and I are involved.” Yet, earlier, when I asked him if he cared whether or not I hung out with Preston, and he replied, “No, do whatever you’d like,” I responded with, “Well, I I wish you did care just a little bit.” He said he was sorry he couldn’t, and kissed me.
That night, I let my anger brew and went to work the next day with what seemed like a permanent scowl on my face. I didn’t smile at Mike. I didn’t play along with his jovial games. I ignored him. I was pissed that I had exposed emotions to him that he had shot down. I was pissed and confused that he said he didn’t care about me and Preston, yet tried to ward him off. I decided that if Mike really wanted a purely physical relationship, I’d have to take the upper hand.
I waited for the right moment, when he went into the stock room. I pushed him up against the wall and kissed him hard. No words.