“It’s not about whether or not I love it. It’s an integral part of the process,” I reply. We’re sitting on the bed. His back is to the headboard with his legs splayed out before him. I can’t take my eyes off his face, watching how he locks up his emotions behind a cynical laugh or sarcastic joke. “I let you treat me like a footstool, and then I got to wear your thighs like earmuffs. I don’t understand why I need water after that.”
