The next morning, I rushed to get dressed and washed up.
Tate was still wearing yesterday's clothes, standing up from the couch and looking at me in confusion.
"I have to catch the subway... Order takeout for yourself." I suddenly remembered, "Do you know how to order takeout?"
He shook his head.
I was frustrated. "Oh, do you have a phone?"
He pulled a phone out of his pocket. "Yes."
"Do you know how to use it?"
He nodded, then shook his head.
I took his phone, opened it, and pinned myself to the top of his contacts.
Damn, he had me saved as "Snack Attack."
Do I really eat too much snack?
I quickly changed it to "Curvy Goddess" and then taught him how to send voice messages. "If you need anything, just use this to talk to me, got it? I'll reply when I can."
On the subway, I ordered him breakfast and sent a voice message reminding him to pick it up, telling him that this is how he should handle all three meals from now on.
Tate: "Okay."
While chatting with my colleagues in the break room at noon, I got a voice message from Tate: "Curvy Goddess, I'm thirsty."
Who's Curvy Goddess?
Oh.
I replied, "There's milk in the fridge."
Half an hour later, I got another voice message from him: "Curvy Goddess, I'm hungry."
I ordered him some takeout.
"Curvy Goddess, when are you coming back?"
"If you're bored, go to sleep."
"Curvy Goddess, I can't sleep."
"If you can't sleep, watch movie."
"That's boring."
"Curvy Goddess, my phone's about to die."
"Charge it."
"I can't find the charger."
I put my phone down, too lazy to deal with him anymore.
He kept pestering me for a while, but then he finally went quiet—probably because his phone died.
When I got home from work and unlocked the door, Tate immediately stood up from the couch, looking at me eagerly.
It was obvious he had been waiting for a long time.
I placed the takeout food on the dining table. He was much easier to deal with than before his brain injury, obediently finishing his meal. When I told him to clean up the trash, he did it earnestly.
I took a picture of him and sent it to my bestie, asking her to assess the situation's credibility.
Me: Do you think Tate is faking it?
Bestie: He looks pretty normal... What would he even gain from it?
Me: True.
Bestie: No way he's putting on this act just to get back together with you.
Me: It's possible.
Bestie: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Me: "..." Me: Alright, I know you're mocking me.
Bestie: You could try testing him.
So I went online, copied two elementary math problems, and placed them in front of Tate.
He looked at me, puzzled.
I thought for a moment and tried solving them myself.
Three minutes later, I tossed the pen aside, realizing this method might not work.
I can't possibly be that dumb, right?
I decided to take a different approach, grabbed a razor (the one I use for shaving in the summer), and ordered Tate to roll up his pant legs.
A real man wouldn't want to lose his leg hair, right?
Tate obediently complied, curiously watching as I diligently shaved his leg hair.
Men's leg hair is really thick and dense, even on a handsome guy like Tate with his slim build and good looks.
I didn't even spare his thighs. When I shaved the inside of his thigh, his muscle twitched—seems like it's his sensitive spot.
Hahaha.
Alright, once I finished shaving, sure enough... he looked just a tad more... fabulous.
I stared at his two smooth, bare legs, lost in thought.
What would his sister think of me if she saw this?
Will it grow back in two months?
Tate frowned as he looked at his legs. "What are you doing?"
Is he mad?
Is he dropping the act?
I happily said, "Smooth, hairless legs are the best legs."
Tate suddenly placed his hand on my leg and rubbed it back and forth. "It is very smooth."
Goosebumps rose on my skin, and I jumped three feet away, staring at him warily.
Tate looked at me with the innocence of a child, confused.
I snapped, "You can't just touch a girl's legs like that!"
Even the old Tate never touched my legs!
Tate: "But you touched mine..."
"Did I touch you? I was just checking if it was prickly!"
Tate pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry."
I huffed, pointing cruelly at the corner of the room. "Go stand in the corner! From now on, whenever you do something wrong, you'll be punished by standing there!"
He pulled down his pant legs and obediently went to the corner.
I angrily took a shower and angrily went to bed.
In the middle of the night, I got up to use the bathroom and, still half-asleep, saw a figure standing in the corner of the living room.
