I’m na**d again and watching as he rehangs the shirt and starts brushing down the front, huffing his annoyance when the minuscule crease that I’ve created doesn’t disappear. I can’t laugh. He’s too aggravated, and it’s quite alarming.
After a good few moments of Miller faffing with the shirt and me watching on in shock, he yanks it down, screws it up and tosses it in a wash basket. ‘Needs washing,’ he mutters, stomping over to a drawer and pulling it open. He lifts out a pile of black T-shirts and sets the stack on the cabinet in the centre of the room before taking each shirt individually and starting another pile to the side. When he reaches the last, he shakes it out and hands it to me, then goes about lowering the newly rotated pile of T-shirts back into the drawer.
As I watch him, completely fascinated, I steel myself to acknowledge something that’s been pretty obvious for quite some time. He’s not just tidy. Miller Hart suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
‘Are you going to put it on?’ he asks, still clearly annoyed.
I don’t say anything; I’m not sure what to, so I pull it over my head and down my body, thinking he lives his life to military precision, and I might have thrown him a curveball with my presence, although he keeps putting me here, so I shouldn’t be too concerned about it.
‘Are you okay?’ I enquire nervously, wishing he’d put me back in his bed and resume worshipping me.
‘Fine and dandy,’ he mutters, very un-fine and un-dandy -like. ‘I’ll make us breakfast.’
My hand is clasped abruptly and I’m pulled through the bedroom with purpose. It doesn’t pass my notice that Miller makes a terrible job of pretending to ignore the bed, his jaw ticking a little as he glances out of the corner of his eye to the neat covers and pillows – neat by my standards, anyway.
‘Please, sit,’ he instructs when we reach his kitchen, leaving me to lower my na**d bum to the cool surface of the chair. ‘What would you like?’
‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ I say, thinking I should make this as easy as possible for him.
‘I’m having fruit and natural yogurt. Would you like that?’ He opens the fridge and lifts out a stack of plastic containers, all containing various chopped fruits.
‘Please,’ I answer on a sigh, praying we’re not heading down that familiar road of shortness and detachment. It feels like it.
‘As you wish.’ His tone is clipped as he sets about taking bowls down from the cupboard, spoons from the drawer, and yogurt from the fridge.
I’m silent as I watch him. Each object he puts in front of me is nudged to get it just so. Orange juice is squeezed, coffee brewed, and he’s sitting opposite me in no time. I’m not touching a thing. I dare not. It’s all been placed with utter precision, and I won’t risk lowering his mood further by moving anything.
‘Help yourself.’ He nods at my bowl. I gauge the position of the fruit bowl, so I can reposition it exactly right, and start spooning some fruit into my bowl. Then I replace it carefully. I’ve not even picked up my spoon before he’s leaning over the table and nudging the fruit dish to the left. My fascination with Miller Hart just keeps growing, and while these little traits are quite irritating, they’re really quite endearing, too. It’s becoming quite clear that it is me who’s sending this gentleman into a tailspin – me and my inability to satisfy his compulsion to keep things just the way he likes them. But I’m not going to take it personally. I don’t think there’s anyone on the planet who could get this right.
The silence is awfully uncomfortable, and I know exactly why. He’s eating, but I can tell that he’s fighting the urge to leave the table and restore his bedcovers to their normal perfect glory. I want to tell him to just go and do it, especially if it means he’ll relax, which means I’ll relax. I don’t get a chance to, though. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and rests his spoon across his bowl.
‘Excuse me while I use the bathroom.’ He stands and leaves the room, and my eyes follow his path, wanting to follow and see him in action, but I take the opportunity to study all the items on the table, trying to figure out exactly what it is about their positions that keep him calm. I can’t see it.
It’s a good five minutes before he returns to the kitchen, visibly more relaxed. I relax, too, and I’m relieved that I’ve finished my breakfast and drunk my juice, so there is absolutely no need for me to move anything . . . except me, and I’m beginning to register an issue with my positioning and movements, too – like in his bed.
He tucks himself under the table and takes his spoon, loading it with a strawberry and popping it in his mouth. The inevitability of my eyes focusing on his slow chews is something that I can’t help. His mouth hypnotises me as much as his eyes do when they’re glistening at me. And I know they are now, which leaves me in a predicament. Eyes or mouth?