Aftertaste, noun
Af·ter·taste
: persistence of a sensation (as of flavor or an emotion) after the stimulating agent or experience has gone
There was once a time she was running away from her life, from people, from everything and everyone; running a...
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The interview went great. I was so nervous about it that I felt butterflies in my stomach. There was quite a few of us, but not as many as I expected, so it didn't take long.
I told Alexander I could take a bus back so he didn't have to wait for me, but he was having none of it. He told me he's not letting me walk out in the dark all by myself and risk anything happening to me. I can't argue with that.
I don't like walking alone in the dark, either, so, sometimes, it's very nice to be having this badass-y boyfriend that's also overprotective. At least I feel safe with him at all times.
He's smoking a cigarette by his car when I get back. He doesn't see me at first because he's turned away, just looking at the park ahead and all the people walking by.
I walk to him faster with long strides. He spots me when I'm close to the car and his whole face changes from the serious-looking, frowning one to a happy and delighted. The change is so pristine and so different on him that it makes my heart skip just a few beats. "How'd it go?" he asks lowly.
I grin in excitement. "Good!" I exclaim. I eye the cigarette, getting an idea. "Can you give me a drag?"
"Of what?" he asks, confused.
I nod towards the cigarette in his hand. He looks at it and then at me, scowling. "No way," he says.
I raise my eyebrow. "Why not? I want to try it."
He shakes his head. "No."
"Why not?" I want to know. "If you're doing it, I can do it, too, no?"
His scowl deepens. "You're not going to fucking smoke, Gabrielle. Get real, babe."
"I am real. Why can you smoke but I can't? What's the difference?"
"Are you serious right now?" He gives me a long look, his eyebrows scrunching together. "Babe," he says in a soft tone. "Come on."
I cross my arms over my chest. "I just want to try it," I say.
Alexander shakes his head. He takes the half-smoked cigarette out and throws it away. "No," he simply says. "Get in the car."
I feel like I pissed him off, but he says it all with such an indifferent tone that I can't know for sure.
I sit in the car after he goes in, not saying a word. I eye him when he drives out of the parking lot. "Are you pissed? You look pissed."
His jaw twitches. "I'm not pissed," he says, obviously pissed.
"Okay. You're pissed," I confirm.
"Gabrielle, if you say the word pissed one more time, I swear to fucking God ..."
I roll my lips together, my eyes widening. Why is he so mad? I was just asking. "Any particular reason why you're in such a bad mood all of a sudden?"
