His lips run along my jaw before he takes my mouth. For one moment, I let myself taste him, but the memories of what happened the last time I believed him pour down like a bucket of cold water.

I push him away. “Never kiss me,” I say, and stab his chest with my finger. “Do not touch me. Stop hinting that I was ever yours. You are nothing to me.”

“Claire,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry for everything I did. What can I do to get you not only to forgive me, but also to give me another chance to win your heart?”

“Nothing. What you did, it’s forgiven but never forgotten. As for us…, I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate you.”

He steps away, closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a deep breath. We arrive at our floor; he moves aside to let me pass. When I reach the door, he finally speaks, “That’s good.”

“That I hate you?” I shake my head and laugh. He’s priceless, “You understand it’s the opposite of what you want from me, right?”

He shakes his head. “Hate is just the same as love, Clarice.”

“You’re delusional.”

“People don’t understand those two feelings. They confuse them as being the opposite of each other. Indifference is the opposite of love. They're two strong emotions, both driven by passion. One wrong move and you transform love into hate. But a billion right moves could tip the needle just where I want it. Sweet dreams, baby.”

I gawk. He’s so insufferable.

“Didn’t you just hear what I said? I hate you! Stay away from me.”

He smiles. “You were right.”

“About?”

“You’re a shitty liar.” He says as he enters his apartment and I hate him even more.

Who does he think he is?

Forty

Claire

Sunday morning, I go to yoga with Danielle.

The first thing I say when I spot her is, “You set me up with a little twerp.”

“Welcome to Vinyasa Three, everyone,” the instructor says, glaring at me. “Take your places at the center of your mat and…”

“Once we’re out of here,” I mumble. “I’m going to teach you the opposite of namaste.”

“I take it you didn’t get lucky because you’re still angry,” she says and smirks. “May I suggest the guy next door?”

“You’re dead to me,” I mutter.

After we finish the class, we head to the juice bar at the promenade. We chat about the class; she suggests a couple of other studios. One of them has pilates too.

“Why did you set me up with that guy?”

She pulls out her phone and shows me the picture of the kid.

“That’s his brother, maybe even his dad,” I tell her. “The face is almost the same, but the kid was…twenty-two.”

She shrugs. “Next time—”