“You’re looking at him. Meaning me. He’s my…he’s mine,” I stammered out, just lobbed the awkward clusterfuck of grammar and poor syntax on the table to sit there alongside the stupid turkey centerpiece. Why I couldn’t say boyfriend, I had no idea. It sounded too cutesy for a guy who regularly turned me inside out in amazing and obscene ways, while lover sounded too fucking bourgeois. Mine was maybe too possessive, but since Eric pretty much owned my body and all my thought processes, it seemed a fair claim in return.
