“Cut it out.” He turned off the tap and shoved the clean plate into the rack, trying to swat my hands away from his face. Soap bubbles landed on the tips of our noses and eyes. “What are you? Two?” “Twenty-three.” And he was twenty-seven. Birthday was May sixteenth. I remembered because he had total Taurus vibes. He clasped my wrists, prying me away as he staggered back from the kitchen sink. Ha. Being a stage-five clinger had its advantages. He couldn’t get rid of me. Row reversed all the way to the wall, where he plastered my back against it, prying my arms off. I clung tighter, octopusing
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