COLE STRYKER

author
colestryker.com

andrearosen:

stryker:

andrearosen:

Just found out Cole and I are in competition for the same sublet. I think we all know where this is going.

Ask me about my domesticity, ladies.


Two can play that game.


Which of these faces do you want to come home to after a hard day at work?
The lady’s is stern and cold. Her eyes say, “Take. Is good.” She brusquely drops a plate of unimaginative pork chops in front of you.
"You eat," she says with a sharp, utilitarian wave toward the provided silverware. She sits across from you and devours her meal with steady, workmanlike bites. You’d like to ask for Teriyaki, hell even ketchup. Where did she get this, a Soviet soup line? But no, you dare not interrupt, feeling as though it would cause something to come undone, like thrusting a wrench into a system of rusty gears. Her calmness is a tool, to be discarded when no longer useful.
Meanwhile, you remember the face of the fellow above. The sly wink. The knowing smile and platonic affection. How he pulled out your chair and asked if you wanted fresh ground pepper atop your dish. He put on some Dave Brubeck platter and dropped the needle. Then he asked you about your day, and even offered follow up questions about that girl from sales that you hate.  He knew you’d want the Merlot this time—he could tell by your glazed eyes, still processing spreadsheets from hours ago. You laughed, you cracked wise, then he surprised you with some tiramisu. Which he wouldn’t let you have until you planted yourself in front of the TV tuned to Bravo.
"I’ve got the dishes tonight, hon. You’ve had a long day."

andrearosen:

stryker:

andrearosen:

Just found out Cole and I are in competition for the same sublet. I think we all know where this is going.

Ask me about my domesticity, ladies.

Two can play that game.

Which of these faces do you want to come home to after a hard day at work?

The lady’s is stern and cold. Her eyes say, “Take. Is good.” She brusquely drops a plate of unimaginative pork chops in front of you.

"You eat," she says with a sharp, utilitarian wave toward the provided silverware. She sits across from you and devours her meal with steady, workmanlike bites. You’d like to ask for Teriyaki, hell even ketchup. Where did she get this, a Soviet soup line? But no, you dare not interrupt, feeling as though it would cause something to come undone, like thrusting a wrench into a system of rusty gears. Her calmness is a tool, to be discarded when no longer useful.

Meanwhile, you remember the face of the fellow above. The sly wink. The knowing smile and platonic affection. How he pulled out your chair and asked if you wanted fresh ground pepper atop your dish. He put on some Dave Brubeck platter and dropped the needle. Then he asked you about your day, and even offered follow up questions about that girl from sales that you hate.  He knew you’d want the Merlot this time—he could tell by your glazed eyes, still processing spreadsheets from hours ago. You laughed, you cracked wise, then he surprised you with some tiramisu. Which he wouldn’t let you have until you planted yourself in front of the TV tuned to Bravo.

"I’ve got the dishes tonight, hon. You’ve had a long day."

  • 7 August 2012
  • 74