He'd agreed to it, sure, but that didn't mean he liked it. Not one bit. It was always a bitter disappointment, never what he needed it to be. She specified her preferences, asked if he minded, and of course he said no. What choice did he have? She wouldn't have agreed to meet up if she didn't think she'd get her way. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't think of all this beforehand and then scrap the whole terrible idea. He supposed it was a matter of seeing. You had to see to believe. Well, he was seeing, all right, but he still could barely believe that he'd gotten himself into this. Again.
He was silent while she went at it. She kept looking at him, as if to see whether or not he was satisfied, but he knew she didn't really care. She would take her fill regardless of his displeasure. She would use him, as she always did.
"God, Michael," she finally said. "It's just a piece of pie."
He stared at her, realizing she didn't understand. And she probably never would.
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