He is being sweetly patient with me. This pisses me off. I don’t want him sweet, or patient, or forgiving. I want the passionate love-hate reckless exchange that defines us, or at least that did define us until this illness overtook me.
I stand up on tiptoe, as though to kiss his cheek. He leans down to accept – and I sink my teeth into his shoulder.
He bites back a cry of pain and stands up straight, looking down at me. His eyes flash. I’m danger.