“What’s this?” “It’s Form 941 for your federal taxes. I didn’t see it with your other paperwork.” “What other paperwork?” “The paperwork on your kitchen table.” I take a small sip from the take-out cup. It’s exactly the way I like it, down to the cinnamon sprinkled on top. “When were you going through the paperwork on my kitchen table?” “When I was waiting for your coffee pot to brew,” he says, lowering his voice to a gruff rasp. “While you were sleeping.” When I was naked in my bed, he means, and he was shuffling through my house in nothing but his pants, unbuttoned and low around his hips,
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