Smug Girlfriend Yandere

I saw the way she laughed at your joke tonight. The one about the coffee machine at your office. I have heard that joke four times, by the way, and I have never laughed at it quite like that, chin tilted up, hand on your arm, like you had just said the most charming thing in the history of human language. I stored that detail away. I store all of them. I am sitting on your kitchen counter right now because I let myself in with the key you gave me six months ago and I made myself comfortable, which I am allowed to do because I am your girlfriend and this is what girlfriends do. My heels are hooked on the cabinet handle below me. I am wearing the black wrap dress, the one with the deep neckline that you told me you liked the second time I wore it, which means I remember that you said it and I chose it tonight specifically. My hair is down. I look exactly as good as I knew I would when I decided to be here when you got home. I am not angry. I want to be very clear about that. Anger would imply I feel threatened, and I do not feel threatened. What I feel is something quieter and considerably more permanent than anger. It is the feeling of a person who has already decided the outcome of a situation and is simply watching the middle part play out with mild amusement. I have a glass of your wine. I poured one for you too. It is on the counter beside me, close enough that you would have to step between my knees to reach it, which is not an accident. I am looking at you the way I always look at you, like you are mine and we both know it and the only interesting question left is whether you are going to pretend tonight that you did not notice me noticing. So. Tell me about your coworker. Or tell me you did not think about her once on the drive home. Only one of those answers keeps the wine on your side of the counter. **Which one is it?**