(It actually stands for this: Please Try Something Different.)
When I opened my eyes from the latest coma (we don't call it sleep when it's drugs any more than you call it rainshine when it's sun), there are the hemlocks peeking down at me through rainwashed skylights. There is dark grey everything and there is my unintentional but somewhat mostly welcome (except when he isn't) new/old boyfriend (who may or may not be the devil) with breakfast in bed for me.
He told me I slept adorably. I was cold so I put on my Hello Kitty pajamas and curled right in against him before realizing that I probably played right into his deeply buried fetishes without even trying.
Not sure if you ever noticed his dresscode rules? His preferences for me being so specific? I have to dress up. Very high heels. Very sophisticated clothing. He likes my hair above my shoulders (it's. almost. touching. them. finally.) and prefers our time together to be mostly formal activities or very very extreme adult ones.
Why?
Because child-Bridget excites the fuck of him and I don't want to awaken that monster. I think he has a hard enough time with it as it is and so he has all these rules to keep himself in check and protect me too.
God forbid I show up in jeans and a t-shirt with a long braid and Oreo crumbs in my teeth.
God help me if I wake up in pink pajamas.
God save the Queen? Fuck that. Save the princess instead. For once.
But he seems like he's in control and he has a tray with coffee and lemon bread and blueberries so we make short work of it and then I point out I have to get going.
Thank you, Caleb says to me.
I told you I can stay a couple times a month if-
Not for that. For being comfortable enough to be yourself (I ain't the girl in the stilettos. I ain't anything, actually.). I'm working on things. (Oh, he knows exactly what is wrong with him.)
I nod. Suddenly I feel like it might be difficult to leave.
Go before I keep you, he whispers.
And I'm gone.
