It’s been a strange week.

After longing and longing for V to get back, when he did, we kept stepping on each other’s toes.

I had developed a routine of coming home, flinging off clothes hopefully to land in designated dumping ground (the bed in the room not being used), alternating between instant noodles and steamed dumplings doused in spicy soya sauce, and vegging out in front of the TV with book, laptop and TV all to myself. Then there was gym to tire me out and of course weekends were frenetic.

V had developed a routine (hopefully) of sitting in a dark hotel room and watching IPL, with room service to straighten out the bed and bring in sandwiches.

Thrown together after three weeks we had some smoking hot sex the first afternoon and then spent the rest of the week sniping at each other. I bridled at being handed cups and plates as if I was the help. V grumbled at the disaray and lack of food. I was resentful about ceding control of the remote. We bought a new laptop and V turned into a complete boy who could not be torn away from a gadget. At regular intervals I shrieked and yelled and the good sex was cut short by the arrival of the period.

Now V is gone and I am bereft again. I feel worse than I did the last time because I feel like I did not give him a good time. And although he snapped, he was by far the more patient one. And at the back of my mind, I keep thinking: If I had to choose between me (in my last week’s avatar) and a hotel room, I would’ve chosen the hotel room.

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