The next day, I was beyond tired. From an onslaught of PMS, working too many shifts, my still sore ankle, staying up all night with Raphael talking and humping the hell out of each other, just plain freakin exhausted. But there were errands to run, bills to pay, general life stuff that accumulates when we’re busy being in love.
That night Raphael drove to Brooklyn, picked me up, and we went back to his house. He was in Direct Deposit Screw Up Hell and I convinced him to take my wallet, fill up his gas tank, buy himself some take-out. Back at his home, I fell asleep on the couch, exhaustion still running my show. A couple of hours later he shook me awake. I staggered into bed but passed out dead asleep before he could convince me to go anywhere near sex. He punished me with partial cuddles for the whole night. I woke up cranky, uterus aching, still not wanting sex. He pouted like a five-year old. Which made me laugh. And the funkier he got, the more I laughed. Until finally he was laughing, too.
“It's your job to slap me upside the head a few times if I get a case of the babies,” he said.
“Okay,” I said cheerfully, smacking him fairly lightly on the side of his head.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Not a problem. None whatsoever.” I said, going in for a second bop.
And happy freaking new year from Elle, Ray, Scooter, and the gang . . .