Page 25 of CowSex

“Tap?”

“Tap. On the sink. What the water comes out of.”

“Faucet?”

“I didn’t force anything.”

That makes me chuckle. I’m not sure if she’s messing with me or if she’s serious, but she makes me smile either way, and that’s something I don't know if I like or love.

“F-A-U-C-E-T. Faucet, that’s what we call a tap.”

“Oh. Well, anyway. Stop deflecting. What renovations were you hoping to achieve in these conditions? You can’t even paint when it’s this cold, surely?”

She has me there.

I drain what’s left of my beer and pour myself another bourbon. Taking a sip, I give her my reply—and yeah, it’s another deflection.

“You really are a nosy little-bit, ain’t ya?”

“Sorry, just trying to make conversation. You don’t have to tell me anything. But just remember, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, and I’m one of the best.”

Her chair scrapes back loudly as she stands from the table.

And now she’s pissed. An emotion that I don’t elicit from only her. It’s something that happens to a lot of people when they spend time in my company, females especially.

I sip my drink, because when all else fails...bourbon.

“Maybe you should just quit with that, the conversation I mean.”

She turns from where she’s just placed her plate in the sink and looks at me. “Perhaps I should.”

Grabbing her bottle of water from the table, she leaves the room with a not nearly mumbled quietly enough, “Fucking dickhead.”

“No denying that,” I call after her.

“Prick,” she calls back.

I hear her bedroom door slam, and a few seconds later, music starts to play.

I try to listen. Again, I don’t know why.

Why am I interested in her, her clothes, her business, or her taste in music? I vowed four years ago that I’d never let another woman get under my skin, and that’s precisely the way I plan to live out the rest of my life. Alone, living off my bitterness.

And yet, my ears still strain to hear what she’s playing.

I wash the pan she used to make our cheesy beans in and stack the plates in the dishwasher before taking my bottle and my empty glass into the living room and set them on the coffee table.

I build a fire with the logs I had the foresight to chop as soon as I arrived a week ago.

By the time I’m done, and the flames are dancing in the fireplace, I’m feeling guilty for the way I spoke to Gracie earlier. She’s a long way from home and all alone. It’s an unfortunate situation we’ve found ourselves in, but none of it is her doing.

I head up the stairs, dig out an old bed sheet, and then go knock on her door, the unmistakable sound of the Bee Gees is playing really loudly inside her room.

The door flies open.

“What?”

“I was a dick.”