Can a man and woman be friends, especially after being intimate? I have the answer for you, it’s no. NO, NO, NO, NO. There is no way this can happen. I think it’s scientifically impossible. You can’t sit down and eat a meal with someone, knowing what he looks like naked. Wanting him to be naked, preferably with you sitting on his lap. I just don’t see it.

How many of you have gone on to being friends after?

I press publish and then turn off the computer. Walking back to my bedroom, I strip out of my clothes, pin my hair on top of my head, and get into bed. The sheets are cool and crisp when I turn on the television, and it’s still on the sports network from last night. I pretend that I was watching the game for Matthew. Ignorance is bliss, they tell me.

The night comes and goes, and my dreams are all of him, and when I get up in the morning, I do it on the wrong side of the bed. I drag my ass to the kitchen to make myself coffee, and when I turn to make my coffee, I see the tray from yesterday still sitting on the counter. Grabbing it, I walk over to the sink to pour it out, and I spot the fishbowl. “Motherfucker.”

The coffee starts, and I run to grab my phone, but I don’t bother texting him. Instead, I just call him, but I’m sent straight to voice mail. That irritates me more when I see it’s ten, and I know he’s up.

Me: It’s Vivienne, you left your fish here. Let me know when you’re going to be home so I can have it delivered back to you.

I toss the phone down on the counter, and when the phone rings, I assume it’s him, so I don’t even bother checking the caller ID.

“You better be on your way to get your fish,” I say into the phone and then grab my cup for my coffee.

“What fish?” Karrie asks, laughing.

“I thought you were Mark,” I tell her and close my eyes.

“Really? So Mark came over?” she asks, snickering, and it takes my pissed-off mood to the next level.

“Don’t start,” I hiss. “He wanted to go over a couple of things.”

“I’m taking from the attitude that you didn’t have the happy ending.” She laughs, and then I hear her sip her drink.

“He wants to be friends,” I tell her. “He came over with coffee to discuss us being friends.”

“You can’t be friends with him,” she says right away.

“Merci,” I say. “I told him that, but he disagrees.”

“Of course, he does,” she says. “But until you’re over him, you can’t be friends with him.”