Page 68 of Bronson

Every Saturday after work, I tell him I need to sleep in my own bed. Be ready to work Sunday morning.

Every Saturday night he talks me into staying just another hour.

We make love two or three times. I’m so worn out, I finally agree to stay overnight.

We wake with the sun. He walks me to Bachman’s. His driver waits outside the entrance of the store, ready to drive me home.

Everyone at home has gotten used to my evenings out. They talk in hushed whispers each time I come in from the street, having just stepped out of his sleek black car.

There are catcalls when he walks me to the door, holding onto me as if he will never let me go when he kisses me goodbye on my front steps.

Every moment that I’m not working, we’re together.

And it’s not enough.

Which brought on our first real fight.

He asked me to move in with him.

I told him I can’t.

He said, it’s simple. His driver would take me where I needed to be. I would always be to work on time.

I told him he didn’t understand.

He told me, help me understand.

They’re my family. How can I leave them behind? I’d said.

He kissed me, whispering, I’m your family, now.

But a long time ago I’d made myself a promise.

And I’m sticking to it.

I will never live with someone who hasn’t made me an unbreakable commitment.

I’ve been dumped off on the sidewalk one time, and it was one time too many.

I won’t live with someone I’m not married to.

But I can’t bring myself to tell him that.

The blue diamond sparkles on my finger.

What does it represent?

He hasn’t officially proposed to me.

He’s only slipped it on my finger, marking me as his.

His what?

Girlfriend?

What we have seems much too serious to be labeled with such a childish sounding title.

He’s my boyfriend. She’s my girlfriend.