We stop at the gate to the apartment, but Bruno's still hanging on to me.
"The key," he says, swaying his hips. "Pocket on left."
"So put me down and get it out."
He lowers his lips to my ear. "You get it for me?"
Goose bumps. All over. I may have decided I want his attention, but that's a little much.
I remove my hands from his neck and push my legs down against his arm, making myself as heavy as possible. He gives in and lets me slide off, then opens the gate. I hop over to the stairs and use the railing as leverage to hoist myself up the first and second steps, blood pounding in my ears with every move. With a top floor apartment, this could take an hour.
Bruno scoops me back up without a word and trudges up the stairs. Despite the strength and precision it takes him to avoid letting any of my appendages smack into the wall, he's not even winded when we finally get to the apartment. He sets me down on the couch--the boys' temporary bed folded away inside--and carefully props my giant foot on a pillow. He rummages in the kitchen and comes back with a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice, wrapped in a hand towel.
The weight of it sends a fresh wave of pain up to my temples and I lean back, bracing myself.
"I am sorry!" he says, a deep line between his eyebrows.
"It's fine." I force a laugh. "This"--I motion to my foot--"is definitely not your fault."
"It is. I should have gone. It would not have happened."
If he had come with me, I know exactly what would have happened, and it wouldn't have involved sightseeing. It would have been The Kissing Bench Part II.
"The key," he says, swaying his hips. "Pocket on left."
"So put me down and get it out."
He lowers his lips to my ear. "You get it for me?"
Goose bumps. All over. I may have decided I want his attention, but that's a little much.
I remove my hands from his neck and push my legs down against his arm, making myself as heavy as possible. He gives in and lets me slide off, then opens the gate. I hop over to the stairs and use the railing as leverage to hoist myself up the first and second steps, blood pounding in my ears with every move. With a top floor apartment, this could take an hour.
Bruno scoops me back up without a word and trudges up the stairs. Despite the strength and precision it takes him to avoid letting any of my appendages smack into the wall, he's not even winded when we finally get to the apartment. He sets me down on the couch--the boys' temporary bed folded away inside--and carefully props my giant foot on a pillow. He rummages in the kitchen and comes back with a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice, wrapped in a hand towel.
The weight of it sends a fresh wave of pain up to my temples and I lean back, bracing myself.
"I am sorry!" he says, a deep line between his eyebrows.
"It's fine." I force a laugh. "This"--I motion to my foot--"is definitely not your fault."
"It is. I should have gone. It would not have happened."
If he had come with me, I know exactly what would have happened, and it wouldn't have involved sightseeing. It would have been The Kissing Bench Part II.
( Kristin Rae )
[ Wish You Were Italian ]
www.QuoteSweet.com