But suddenly, the radio clipped to his discarded vest buzzed with a call.
The crackling voice of the dispatcher rang out in the now quiet kitchen.
“Got a call from a young man in distress…says his ex girlfriend has rammed into his car multiple times and has now taken a tire iron to the windshield. He’s safely in his home, but she’s right outside. All units please respond to 1125 North Street…22:35, over.”
Mike looked from the radio to me. “Fuck! Amanda, I’m so sorry but I have to go. Mother fuckers are crazy.” Carefully, he slipped out of me and zipped up.
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.
“Wait, do you have to go?” I blurted out as he zipped up his vest and snapped on his belt.
“I’m so sorry. But yes. I do. Don’t you move, though. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I told you, I’m not finished with you.”
After giving me a deep, longing kiss, and a look that could have stopped my heart, he raced from my house.
I looked around the empty kitchen, my clothes on the floor, the empty coffee mugs on the counter. The smell of sex lingered in the air. I felt myself start to laugh at the craziness of the whole situation.
With a smile on my face, I sat back against the countertop and took it all in. I shook my head and my grin widened.
I’ll say it once, and I’ll say it 100 times more: I fucking hate Valentine’s Day.