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Do you want to come over?
Later, when she’s come over, they sit on the sofa and have a couple of stiff strip-me-naked’n’tonics. They talk. She goes to the bathroom. He times it, so that when she comes out, he’s undressing in the bedroom. She massages him and they have sex. They relax. Soon, she leaves.
But first, it is afternoon. They speak on the phone because he doesn’t like texting. He’s the one who calls.
—Do you want to come over?
—Do you want me to come over?
—Sure. If you want to.
—I want to. If you want me to.
—Yes, I do. I already said so.
(Saying “I already said so” is always a mistake; he always forgets not to say that.)
—No, you didn’t.
—I really did. But never mind, I’ll tell you again: I want you to come over.
—Why do you always have to be so difficult. I wanted to come over but now I’m not so sure.
—Yeah, I know what you mean. Now I’m not so sure, either.
(Silence for a moment.)
—Okay, I’ll come over.
He waits for her to hang up. She hangs up. She comes over. Never was there a time, after he had called and they’d spoken, that she wouldn’t come over.