It’s too soon to say that. Cynthia needs to figure out what she wants from me. We can take this one day at a time. And if she wants to just hook-up and then part ways, I can accept that. I’ll have to accept it. If it’s what she really wants.
I slowly extricate myself from the bed, careful not to jostle her too much. She lets out a small humming sound, but stays asleep, her face pressed into the pillow and her dark hair spilling out over the bed sheets.
I head to the bathroom first to relieve myself and splash some water on my face. Then I tiptoe into the living room. I grab my jeans and T-shirt from where I folded them on the couch the night before and get dressed.
I note how lovely her living room is in the morning. Yes, I own the apartment, but I’ve never spent too much time in it. Cynthia has made it quite a charming space. She has little postcards taped on the wall in random places, and her big desk is pressed into one corner. Somehow, the desk seems to represent her so well. It’s large and sturdy and covered with her computer and various books, but it’s mostly organized. I imagine she spends hours at that desk.
The rest of the furniture is simple and low-priced. She’s a student, after all. But that desk is high-quality. I smile to myself. Of course Cynthia decided to splurge on a tool for her studying.
I wander into the kitchen and start to poke around for something to make her. She said all she had was pasta, but once I open the fridge and a few cabinets, I see that Cynthia has a fairly well-stocked kitchen. She’s got eggs and some vegetables and yogurt anyway, which is a lot more than I kept around when I was her age.
I run my hand over my face at the reminder of our age gap. That might be an even bigger challenge than our timing concern with Cynthia graduating so soon.
We’re in different phases of life. It hasn’t caused any conflict yet, but we’ve only just begun this new dynamic.
It’s undeniable though that I am a settled adult who has found his routine. Some might even call it a rut. Cynthia, on the other hand, is so young. Her life is just beginning. I remember what it was like when I was in my early twenties. Every day was an emotional roller coaster, and there was so much anxiety just from not knowing how everything was going to turn out.
A worm of discomfort crawls through my chest. I don’t want Cynthia to cling to me to assuage her anxiety over the future. I don’t want her to see me as this steadying re-affirming older presence. I can’t quite explain it, but that would make me feel used. I want her to want me for me.
It sounds corny, but I know I can’t be some sort of balm for Cynthia’s stress. Yes, she calls me Daddy in bed, but I don’t think it has anything to do with her having a low self-esteem or actually any daddy issues.
I’ll have to keep an eye on that. For now, I need to stop creating problems out of thin air. I refocus on the kitchen. As we decided together, we need to take this thing one day at a time.
I can’t even call it a “relationship.” Already, it feels like more than hooking up. But I’m definitely not her boyfriend, and I don’t think I want to be. I outgrew that kind of title the second I turned thirty.
Even so, what we have is monogamous. We didn’t say the words out loud, but I know I won’t be going to anyone else for my sexual needs. how could I be satisfied with someone else after what happened between us last night? The sex was so electric, so intoxicating, I’ll need many, many repeat performances.
I pull the eggs out of the fridge, as well as an onion and some cheese. Then I grab the coffee pot and start brewing coffee. I’m assuming she drinks coffee since she has the pot in the middle of her counter, plus I’ve seen her with a thermos leaving her place in the morning.
It feels good to prepare her eggs and toast for breakfast. I’ve never been so eager to take care of someone before. It’s not just that she’s younger that brings out this caring and protective instinct. I think it’s because she deserves to be taken care of. Cynthia is so hard-working and independent, she has earned a break. She is worthy of being looked after.
Just as the coffee is finishing up, she appears in the kitchen. Her hair is tousled and falls in gorgeous waves over her shoulders. Her purple bathrobe, while still secured at the waist, has become loose around her neck, revealing a tantalizing V of skin.
“Good morning,” she says.
I take her in for a moment. How is it possible that she’s this beautiful after just waking up?
She blushes under my gaze and turns her attention towards the coffee pot. “You didn’t have to make me anything.”
“I wanted to,” I say. “Did I wake you up too early?”
“No.” Cynthia shrugs. “I always like to wake up early on Sundays so I can enjoy the whole day off.”
I grin. It’s so typical of her to use that kind of logic. She doesn’t like to waste time or laze about in bed.
I finish up on the eggs as Cynthia pours out two mugs of coffee.
“Cream or sugar?” she asks.
“Just a splash of cream,” I say.
Cynthia nods and adds cream to mine, then a splash to her own mug. She puts in just the tiniest bit of sugar. I realize that I like knowing things like this about her. What she looks like in the morning, how she takes her coffee.
Cynthia hands me two plates,
