26~You have to laugh more often, Valerie

My father's wife would have looked at me satisfied right now: she was the one who convinced me to start paying attention to my shapes because I was so disgusting that she was ashamed to introduce me to her friends, as if I cared that she looked good.

The hatred of her made me lose weight, but I will never give her the satisfaction of thanking her.

I must admit, however, that the scent coming from the table is so inviting that at some point I start staring at the box in my disgusted hands.

A plate of pasta won't make me fat for sure, but I'm sure it will raise the self-esteem of the idiot I find myself having as a roommate.

I wonder where he learned to cook, but I don't think he's the kind of man who's tied to his mother to the point of taking cooking lessons from her.

I don't even know if he has a mother, but not everyone is born a loser like me, so I try to convince myself that he has parents out there, even if he never talks about them.

To avoid starting to glance at him and stare at him without realizing it, I decide to place the now empty container on the small table in front of the corner sofa, and then lie down and rest my head on the nearest pillow, starting to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling.

It always ends like this: every time I organize a perfect evening and imagine staying awake chatting with Mary and Tommy, as if I were a child of their age too, I find myself collapsing on the sofa and closing my eyes with exhaustion.

As a child I could not fall asleep before midnight, also because I always forced myself to study late, but only to outdo my classmates, not because I liked being in the company of the bricks of law.

When, on the other hand, I had nothing to do, I spent my time staring at the unlit chandelier in my room until I let myself be 'lulled by the arms of Morpheus'.

Then I started working and my life has become even more monotonous than before, only now I'm forced to rack my brains to save the asses of those who get in trouble.

I slowly open my eyelids with my mouth kneaded with sleep, cursing softly and looking for my cell phone in the darkness of the living room.

I don't know who is calling at this hour, but I am not surprised to see my father's name on the screen next to the clock that strikes three in the morning.

I turn off the call without thinking twice, snorting when my stomach growls with hunger: maybe he doesn't know that, unlike him, I don't do the night shifts in court!

I look around bewildered, noticing that I am alone in the living room and in the company only of the moonlight coming through the window a few meters away, but then I notice Mary and Tommy lying on the other side of the sofa, so I smile slightly, for then roll my eyes as my stomach resumes awkwardly.

Eat at midnight. Here's another vice I had as a child that always pissed off my stepmother.

I get up and leave the couch slowly, trying not to wake Tommy, knowing he is susceptible to even the lowest noises.

I arrive in the kitchen before regretting it and turning back, but I stop at my steps when my eyes end up on the plate of pasta placed on the kitchen counter, next to a fork.

It looks so inviting that I can't help but take a couple of steps forward to admire it better.

I start to look at it from above in an eerie way, taking a deep breath to breathe again the scent that comes from the dish, even though it will now be cold and inedible.

"You can use a fork." - I widen my eyes at the sound of Ethan's voice, even lower than usual from sleep, but I don't turn to his side and close my eyes to look for an excuse and explain to him why I'm staring his spaghetti.

I understand that it is my father's fault that Ethan is now behind me and I have been humiliated again:

"I'll help you, if you want." - he starts when the silence breaks again, this time taking steps in my direction, but as soon as I hear him positioning himself behind me, I hasten to exclaim, continuing to remain turned from behind:

"I'm not hungry!" - I say, but I understand that it is useless to convince him to move away from my body, while Ian's words echo in my head.

I'm not a child and I can handle an awkward situation like this without punching Ethan again, but I realize that's not the case when he blocks my body between the marble of the kitchen and his bare chest.

The tip of my nose starts to catch fire when the heat from his abs burns the bare skin of my lower back, due to my slightly raised tight shirt.

I try not to pay attention to his position, as he rests both hands against the marble, on the sides of my side, and then moves his right arm and grabs the cutlery next to the plate:

"Ethan ..." - I begin to moan in a low voice, while his sigh burns the hollow of my neck:

"My father taught me to cook." - he suddenly says, starting to turn the fork in the plane, while I lift my head and tilt it slightly upwards to meet his eyes, but he has such a troubled expression who seems to have regretted his little confession.

"I can't eat anyway." - I start to say, slightly shaken and keeping my lips pressed when she brings the fork to my mouth:

"Don't be stubborn, babe." - I hear him chuckle behind me, which calms me, but I still push my head back to tickle his bare shoulder with my curls.

"Ethan, stop!" - I whisper, bursting out laughing when his hand slides along my cheek, soiling my cheekbone with gravy.

"Okay, stop!" - I repeat as soon as I hear him stop laughing, while I try not to blush when I notice that he stares down at my smile with a serious expression.

I pass my tongue to the dirty corner of my mouth, then please him and open my mouth wide to eat the pasta that wraps the fork, under his watchful eyes that I try to avoid not to be bewitched:

"Happy?" - I decide to break the awkward silence and make him change his expression, but he continues to look at me almost with tenderness, and then raises the other arm to my cheek and grabs it between the index and middle fingers as of I was a little child:

"You have to laugh more often, Valerie."

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