Chasing Cars

When we got home, I was in a bad mood. This is why I avoided talking about my biology. It always resulted in one of two things. Depression or anger. That, coupled with the fact that I appeared to be PMSing, had fainted, and was still hungry, made it all the more unbearable. We didn’t speak the entire ride, and then Chris went to put everything on the table while I went to get plates and cups.

For the most part, I’d learned not to hate myself so much for what happened. I sort of accepted the fact that I was alive because of something terrible. But I’d learned to accept myself as a victim of this situation too. Since, you know, I didn’t ask to be born. But that didn’t mean I was free from depression or general misery or just feeling like I shouldn’t be alive and was a burden on the people around me. Acceptance was not a cure.

I brought the plates and cups back to the table. Chris and I sat down and dug in without a word between us. He put the TV on, and we ate and watched in silence.

But then the sugar started running through my veins. My stomach stopped being so angry, and I felt less irritated and light-headed. I’d eaten a ton. So my blood sugar level was probably on the high side. Plus, I had to pee. And that was probably a good sign, right?

I actually completely forgot about the conversation in the car. And I went from being grumpy to remembering that my boyfriend was home, and I had the rest of the day to reacquaint myself with his body.

He was a little preoccupied with the TV, so I had to take matters into my own hands. I did some suggestive flirting and got a little handsy. He was worried I’d bumped my head too hard and thought I might need more time to rest. I explained that I would only relax if he paid me back for what I had done the night before. Then I reminded him that I was PMSing, which meant I’d probably start my period soon, and we might want to take advantage of it. That seemed to do the trick. It wasn’t that hard to convince him. And it wasn’t like I had to beg or anything anyway. Since getting handsy had resulted in him pulling me onto his lap and kissing my neck anyway.

So we took ourselves to the bedroom and got a little dirty. Well—not really a little dirty. It was a lot dirty. And it was great. Enough that I could take a quality nap after we were done. And I would have been glad to keep sleeping if I didn’t wake up hungry again. I didn’t want to pass out, and I wasn’t sure I was fully recovered from fainting in the morning. So I put on one of Chris’s shirts and ambled into the kitchen.

He was sitting at the desk on the computer. He didn’t nap with me. He saved his sleeping for nighttime like a normal person. Sex always seemed to make him more alert. Even though it turned me into a sleepy stumbling idiot.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, hearing me shuffle right for the fridge. The kitchen and the living room were separated by a bar. Sometimes when we felt fancy, we’d eat dinner at the bar. But, for the most part, we ate at the coffee table in front of the TV. I grunted in response.

“Hungry,” I replied.

“I’d offer you leftover pizza, but you ate it all.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just make a sandwich.”

“I looked up your symptoms on the internet.”

“Oh yeah? That sounds—really boring, actually.”

I drank some orange juice from the carton in the fridge. Chris and I were both bad at this habit. But neither one of us complained about it. We swapped enough bodily fluids that it didn’t really matter anymore. Plus, nothing lasted long enough to go bad. We both had a healthy relationship with food. Sometimes we even made an effort to eat healthy things. You’d think that dating a vegetarian would make you eat healthier. But that was false. Most of our food was veggie burgers slathered in ketchup and mustard.

“It sounds like hypoglycemia,” he continued. “It said you should be fine as long as you eat. They said carbs are good for you. You might have to start carrying around a granola bar or candy or something. Just in case.”

“It sounds like my kind of diet.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be too broken up about it. But you should probably still see a doctor. I’m just Googling things. I’m not an expert.”

“So what do we have that has a lot of carbs and sugar?” I looked through the fridge again.

“I think you’ve more than met your daily calorie requirement, Mar.”

“I need more sugar.”

“You don’t need sugar. You drank half a 2 liter of Pepsi.”

“I want ice cream. Do we have any ice cream?” I pulled the freezer open.

“You polished it off last night.”

“Damn. I need ice cream. Let’s go get some.”

“Right now?” He was looking at me with his eyebrow raised. Just the one.

“Yes, right now. C’mon. Do you want to come with me? Or do you want to hang out here?”

“I’ll come.”

We both went back to the bedroom. I pulled the shirt off so I could find real clothes. And whenever I was naked in front of Chris, he’d immediately forget what he was doing and get handsy. So he pulled me to him by the waist, laid smooches on my neck as he worked his hands down my body. I giggled and worked my hands up his shirt, and then we fooled around for a few minutes before I reminded him that I still very much wanted ice cream.

“This is the best ice cream I’ve ever had,” I told him as we drove back home from the store. Neither of us could control ourselves once the ice cream was in the car. I busted it out the second I was sitting down. And okay, maybe Chris could control himself just fine because he was more focused on driving.

“You get the same kind every time,” he said.

“Yeah, but it’s better this time. Maybe they changed the formula.” He gave me a look of complete disbelief. “Try it. It’s amazing.” I scooped some onto my plastic spoon and shoved it into his mouth before he could say no. He took a moment to assess it.

“It tastes like it always does,” he finally decided.

“Your taste buds must be weak. I swear it’s better than usual.”

“That was my second guess, of course.” I went back to enjoying my ice cream in silence. By the time we got home, the tub was almost half empty.

“You didn’t want any of this, did you?” I asked him when he parked the car. He hooked his finger onto the edge of the tub and peeked inside.

“Well, I was planning on it,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’ll bite my arm off if I try.”

“I’ll share. You can keep your arm this time.”

“Fine.” He took over as we headed back into the apartment. But once we got inside, I went to the kitchen to get another spoon so I could share the rest with him.