Intervention

Saturday night Abraham and I both had parties to attend and we agreed to meet up after we fulfilled our social duties. My party celebrating an old friend's CPA certification predictably did not last long into the night. Meanwhile, Abraham kept me updated on the body count at his.

Buzz. One person is down for the count.

Buzz. Make that two.

How many bodies does there have to be before I get you?

Buzz. Five.

Buzz. Another one bites the dust.

Buzz. I think I'm done here.

Abraham showed up at my apartment. He crashed on my couch, exhausted from the day's activities. It had been a long day for both of us. I snuggled in my blanket and shoved my feet between his thighs for warmth. He obligingly lifted a leg so I could cram my toes between them.

It was exactly the same and completely different all at the same time. It was the same in that here he was in front of me, present and affectionate. It was different in the way we conversed. Instead of learning about each other and telling stories of our pasts, our conversation continued where we left off a few days earlier. When I had seen him last, he told me he was attending a 3-year-old's birthday party. As he laid on my couch, he updated me on the party and what he got the little girl. I smiled to myself. We had hit that point. We now had a stride.

Abraham sat up on the couch and I snuggled into his shoulder. These moments were nice. We don't get these during the week. By the time we leave the bar, it's late and we work in the morning, so it's directly to bed for pillow talk. These sober moments of quiet time together are reserved for the weekends.

The TV was on, but we only caught about half of every episode of It's Always Sunny. We talked. We kissed. We spoke of next times.

The next morning Abraham rolled over in my bed. He said he wasn't used to the train that runs by my apartment late at night. It woke him up.

"Yeah, the Amtrak station is about 2 miles from here. But isn't there a train near your place as well?"

"There is, but they aren't allowed to blow their horns late at night."

"Oh, I always found that comforting. I like my trains."

"You know what else woke me up? You. You punched me and said you were having nightmares. What were they?"

It's the only lasting scar I have from S. My nightmares. They're frequent and they're terrifying because my safety is always threatened in them. I thought for a minute before I could remember this one.

"Oh yeah, you were in it." As I remembered the dream, the same unsafe feelings swept over me again. "We're at that stage now when you start apologizing for things you do in my sleep."

"What happened?"

"I was working in the country and someone stole my car and stripped it down. I called you for a ride and you never came." As I said the words, I could hear a surprised escape of air leave Abraham. Normal people must not dream like this.

Abraham wrapped his arm across me. "No," he corrected. "You just woke up before I got there."

It was the perfect response. It completely changed the dream for me and removed any of the lingering feelings I had.

He said he had to use the restroom and made a move to get out of bed. I play fought him and held him down from leaving. He laughed as we struggled against each other. He's powerless against my Scissor Lock of Death. He pushed his face in mine.

"You are addicting," he breathed.

Abraham is a numbers man. He's an accountant who lives for nerdy Excel files. I'm the letters girl. I'm the writer and subsequently the verbal one. I'm the one who will enter his bedroom every week and happily cry, "I've missed you!" He doesn't say things as much. So when he does say them, they mean more.

"Yesssss," I playfully slithered like the snake from Riki Tiki Tavi. I filled the pit in his chest and kissed him.

I'm going to assume he meant I'm addicting in the good, I-can't-get-enough-of-you way. Not the I'm addicting in the crystal meth, I-wish-I-never-started way.