The Prisoner
He comes into the room, a bottle of champagne in his hand and a gleam in those wicked eyes. “What’s the occasion?” I ask, nodding at the bottle. I hate it when he drinks. Then his teasing takes on a meanness I don’t like. I can’t defend myself against it. I hope the bottle stays corked tonight.
He grins, and I know he’s already drunk. “It’s our night, baby,” he says, popping off the cork. The champagne bubbles out of the bottle, running down his hands to splash on the carpet. “Oops.”
“The carpet,” I whine. I hate it when I sound like this, childish and petty, but he does this to me. Him and his goddamn, bittersweet love. “There goes our security deposit.”
He grins again and rubs the spot into the carpet with his foot. “There you go,” he says, as if that’s supposed to ma
