“See?” I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor as I walk backward, closer to the bed. “I believe in us. We’ll just have to stay extra close to each other. No wild swinging of limbs.”
“That takes away most of my moves,” he says as I take his T-shirt off, tugging it over his head.
I want to scratch my nails down his chest and see all the little ways he reacts to simple touches like that. He truly appreciates that stuff in a way that’s so endearing I wonder if he’s been a little touch starved since the separation.
By the time he backs me against the sad daybed frame, our clothes are littering what little floor space there is in this room. I forget to hit the light switch, but it doesn’t bother me enough to take a five-second break. I can ignore the reminders of my actual life, even with the ceiling light illuminating all of them. I’ve been doing that for the last few years anyway.
I want to take everything further. I want to do something we haven’t done yet—inmyspace.
“W-wait. I have an idea.” I maneuver myself upright and turn around on my hands and knees. “Sixty-nine?”
“You have the best ideas. You’re very smar—” I don’t catch what he says after that because I’ve scooted myself backward, knees on either side of his chest and then farther back, directly into his face.
“Is it too distracting?” I ask. “Sometimes it’s too—oh shit…”
I think being in my own room emboldens me. Or maybe it’s just a convenient position on a twin bed because you’re right on top of each other.
It’s far from my best work, but I can feel how much he’s enjoying it. No,enjoyis not the right word. You “enjoy” a matcha latte or something. Nick is kind of feral. Which makes me feral-er.
This time feels different from the blow job on his turf. Just feeling like Ihaveturf, even if it’s borrowed, is refreshing.
Nick is very good at showing appreciation and gratitude in the form of muffled groans.
I thrive on positive feedback; I am living my best life. Fuck everything else that happened in the last three hours.
I forgot about condoms. I mean, I possess them. Somewherein this room. I just don’t have them at the ready, near my bed, which is really the ideal place for condoms. I have to get up and dig through my duffel bag to find what I believe are my last two, which is a little bit vibe deflating, but this is one aspect of the encounter on which I’m not taking chances.
We try out some different positions on the narrow bed. Nick’s knee slides off the mattress when we attempt missionary and I grip the decorative metal swirly part of the daybed frame for leverage and bend it out of shape.
We settle into a spooning position, and even though I’m practically teetering off the edge of the bed, I’m sure he won’t let me fall. I love the way I can feel him against my entire body, the way he uses his hands onme.
His breathing is so ragged. I can feel how close he is, probably holding himself back, waiting for me. There’s something so beautiful about that, like he wants to jump into that chasm together.
I do, too. But I also want to stretch this out, claim more borrowed time.
We’re being so loud that I briefly consider the possibility that the neighbors on theotherside can hear. And I don’t care. I want to express a genuine emotion in this apartment, not walk (fuck?) on eggshells.
So I finally do. We don’t fit on the daybed, nor do I trust its structural integrity after the last twenty minutes. But Nick keeps spooning me and I don’t intend to move anytime soon.
“I’m going to tighten the screws on this bed frame before I leave,” he says.
“Who said you’re leaving?”
“Come stay at my place,” he says. “It’s safer.”
“I told you, they’re at a hotel for the weekend.”
“No, I meant there’s less risk of a fall in your sleep.”
“Hold me for a few more minutes?” He squeezes me tighter.
“We can do that,” he says as we settle into the quiet.
After a few minutes, he says, “I really didn’t expect this.” He’s talking so close to my left ear—this intimate, vulnerable sound. “In the past couple weeks, it’s like…everything spun around. I mean, I’ve been depressed for most of my life—”
“You’redepressed?” I turn my head to look at him, almost twisting off the edge of the mattress in the process. “You’re like the most well-adjusted person I’ve ever met.”
“Me?” He scoffs. “I’m almost forty years old. I work seven days a week and I never have enough money to give my daughter the things she wants and I run a business that’s constantly on the knife’s edge of shutting down. I can keep going—I’ve done it for years. And in so many ways, I’m lucky, so I don’t acknowledge that something’s missing because I’m ‘okay.’ ”
