I glance around my apartment, making sure I picked up all the laundry, emptied the trash, and the kitchen sink is clean. Stewart will be here any minute. I cheated and stopped off on the way home from work to pick up Chinese takeout, which is now warming up in a skillet and a pot on my stovetop, the containers in the trash.

I didn’t see Daniel emerge from his office, not once, before I left work at five o'clock. Now, close to seven, I’m waiting for Stewart, but not in a good way. I feel like I’m settling, like I’m surrendering, giving up, throwing in the towel. Whatever you want to call it, I’m doing it. I try to be more excited about Stewart's impending arrival. After all, until I started my manuscript and began to fantasize about Daniel and I in that manuscript, I was okay with Stewart, if never sexually satisfied.

Sure, he could be dorky at times, obtuse, and downright annoying. As a pathologist, his world is one of order. Constancy. While the sex is bland, we got along well enough for the most part. I think under different circumstances, we would've been more compatible, but I spent months, if not longer, constantly and mentally comparing Stewart with Daniel. Well shit, Daniel is off the table, so to speak. Now I have to move on. Even so, I find it difficult to work up the same anticipation for seeing Stewart that I experienced with Daniel.

Then again, Daniel and I didn't date, not in the traditional sense of the word. Our interactions were purely sexual in nature. That’s obvious by the fact that I didn’t even know he was engaged. I know very little about Daniel's day-to-day life, other than what he had divulged in snippets. It's not like we openly went out to dinner, or events, so what the hell?

The knock on my door startles me from my increasing myriad of depressing thoughts. I stare at it for several moments, wondering what Stewart will do if I don't answer. If I pretend I’m not home. No, I can't do that to him.

I move to the door and open it, forcing a small smile. He’s wearing an off-the-rack suit from a retail store, his tie crooked, his collar open. "Hey, Stewart." He steps inside, wraps me in his arms, and plants one on my lips. I return the kiss half-heartedly, gently pushing against his shoulders, giving him a small chuckle as I shut the door behind him.

"You hungry?"

"Sure, what are you fixing?"

I gesture toward my small kitchen table. "Chinese takeout."

He chuckles, the one thing about him that I really like. He isn't fussy, that’s for sure. He will eat anything that’s put in front of him. "Wine?"

"You bet," he says, slipping off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch and then heading for the kitchen table.

He pulls up a chair and sits down, crossing one leg over the other as he leans back, one arm dangling over at the back, and looks at me. He has a weird expression on his face; the same look he gets when he’s looking through his microscope, studying some bacteria or something.

"What is it?" I finally ask, moving past him into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Merlot and a corkscrew. He turns his head and glances at me over his shoulder. "Spill," I order.

He shrugs. "I admit I was a little surprised that you texted me and wanted me to come over for dinner. You've been avoiding me lately."

The heat of a flush rises in my cheeks, and quickly I lower my head, pretending to concentrate on inserting the corkscrew just so into the wine cork. "It's just been hectic at the office now that the holidays are over, that's all."

He says nothing, and I pour a couple of glasses of Merlot, take them to the table, and sit down across from him. One thing about Stewart; we don't have to fill the silence with empty talk. I sip, and then, watching him gulp down his glass, take a couple larger sips myself before returning to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle, and plunking it down in the middle of the table. He refills both our glasses while I grab a couple plates from the kitchen cupboard and dish up rice and orange cashew chicken.

By the time we finish eating, muttering inane pleasantries throughout supper, I’ve downed three glasses of wine. My head feels like a balloon floating a short distance from my shoulders. He looks at me and grins.

"How about a romp?"

I shrug. Why the hell not? Without another word, he heads for my bedroom, pulling off his button-down shirt as he makes his way down my short hallway. He’s the Stewart I’ve always known; athletic build, more suited to a surfer than a pathologist. I imagine another relatively tame episode in bed, although he does tend to get a little wild when he drinks wine, which certainly isn't often. His idea of wild is doing it slightly different than the traditional missionary position. Maybe on our sides. Big whoop.

For the first time in a long while, I assess him. His shaggy, not quite brown hair is a bit on the long side, and he has nice-looking green eyes that bespeak an Irish heritage. Come to think of it, he and Daniel are only a couple years apart; Stewart a couple years younger. Stewart's green eyes are more the color of grass, and I automatically compare them to Daniel's bright green. Dammit! Is this to be my fate? Comparing every man I sleep with in the future to Daniel? What if—oomph!

I startle, realizing that Stewart has stopped just in front of my bedroom. I slam into his bare chest as he chuckles, his hands reaching to steady my shoulders. His breath feels warm against my face, smelling of Merlot.

"I forgot condoms."

Nothing like a cold splash of water on my face. I glance up at him, nibbling my lip. "I think there's still a couple in the bathroom cabinet. Go look."

He scooches past me in the hallway and disappears into the bathroom. The light clicks on and I hear the medicine cabinet open and him rustling inside it as I make my way into my bedroom. I pull off my shirt and pants and then climb into bed, slightly dizzy, my thoughts fuzzy.

Moments later, Stewart returns, holding up a red package in his hand. "Found one!" He laugh. "We'll get one shot at this, so we better make it good!"

I watch as he undresses. His cock is already engorged. Try as I might not to, I see Daniel in my mind's eye, making mental comparisons. I purposely shove those thoughts out of my head as Stewart climbs into bed beside me. Leaning his face toward mine, he kisses me, sticking his tongue in my mouth as his hand begins to grope my breast. Then that hand strays downward toward my legs.

I reach for his hand and stop it by the time he gets to my hip. I feel horrible. I want to cry. I want to scream. He doesn't seem to notice, but just keeps kissing and kneading my hip like it’s a lump of dough. His cock presses against my thigh.

It’s at this moment I realize I can’t go through with this. I’m just not into it. I can't get Daniel out of my head. I don't want to have boring sex with Stewart. To even suggest something a little different will really upset the status quo, at least as far as Stewart is concerned. I can't really fault him for it. It's just that sex with Stewart is dull. Always the same. It was boring before I experienced bondage with Daniel.

I pull away from him, and although I still feel a little fuzzy, I know what I need to do. He tries to envelope me in his grasp, and I place my hand on his chest. He looks at me, his pupils slightly dilated, his lips open, his face flushed.

"What is it? You want to put it on?"

For a second I don't know what he’s talking about until he extends the still rolled condom toward me. "No, Stewart, I don't want to put it on—"

"You want to go bareback?"

I stare, dismayed that he even knows the term. "No, I don't want to go bareback, either. Stewart, I can't do this."

"What do you mean?" He frowns, and then his eyes widen. "You're not on your period, are you?"

Oh my God. "No, Stewart, I'm not on my period. I just can't do this." He reaches for me again, and I pull away even more. Another inch and I'll fall out of the bed. I lift myself onto my elbow, one hand placed firmly on his chest. "I mean I can't do this. Sex. Us."

"What are you saying, Ashley?" He gestures at the bed. "We're lying naked in your bed. And you just changed your mind?"

I don't want to hurt him, really I don't. I steel myself and rolled out of bed, quickly heading for my dresser, where I yank out a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He watches me pull them on, his expression confused.

"Ashley, what's going on? Did I say something? What?"

Do it, I tell myself. Do it now. Cut the cord. Quickly. I have his full attention now. He sits up in bed, staring at me. "I don't want to hurt you, Stewart, but I just don't think it's fair for either one of us to continue. I—"

"Is it that guy at work? Your boss?"

My mouth drops open and I deny it. "It's not, Stewart," I say. That at least is the truth. "I just need some time to figure out where I am and what I want."

He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his trousers. "And you waited until we're in bed to tell me this?"

"I'm sorry, Stewart, I didn't realize that… that it was over between us until we got into the bed."

He frowns. "I don't believe it. You met another guy." He jerks his pants on, his movements stiff and awkward. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why string me along? How long have you been stringing me along, Ashley?"

"I didn't do it deliberately, Stewart," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Even I realize it’s a self-defense mechanism. "I just don't feel like I can commit to a relationship, not the way you want me to. We're at different places in our goals. So, what's the point? I don't want to just have casual sex. You can understand that, can't you?"

He mumbles something that I can't understand. I don't bother to ask him to repeat it. It doesn't matter. He steps toward the bedroom door and then leans down to snatch his shirt from the floor. He pauses, then slowly threads his arms through the sleeves, every move precise, straining for what I perceive as his attempt to maintain his dignity. His face flushes with emotion as he looks at me, enclosing the buttons on his shirt. He rubs a hand through his hair and lowers his eyebrows. His eyes bore into mine, it’s as if he can read every thought racing through my head.

"I'm sorry, Stewart, I don't—"

He lifts a hand. "You do know, Ashley, that once I walk out of here, it's over. Forever. I'm not going to beg. I'm not going to take you back. It's obvious to me that you've already decided." He shakes his head. "But I'll say one thing. I thought we were in a relationship. I thought we were on the same page. The least you could have done is have the decency to talk to me about this." He shakes his head again and then turns and leaves the room.

I don't move, not even after I hear the front door open and close softly behind him. The apartment grows still. I gaze at the bed, my clothes on the floor, and then, out of nowhere, my eyes fill with tears and a stifled sob erupts from my throat.

Shit.