“You’re better than that,” says my roommate, as he dries the dish he’s washing and looks at me sternly, the words of his “come-to-Jesus” speech still lingering, as we stand in the kitchen. Goddamnit. He’s right. He’s always right. I hate it when he’s right.
“You can do whatever you want,” he repeats. “You’re a grown woman, and you can make your own decisions.” His voice softens, and he looks me in the eyes with something like love.
“Just know that I will judge the SHIT out of you for it. Always.”
I haven’t hugged him that hard in awhile.