“Yes, of course,” I said, gulping down my shallow, lusty breaths. The bike bell tone chimed, and the sound traveled over my electrified skin and down my spine, and I was too fucking aroused to be talking to this professor. It was all I could do to keep from wiggling in my squeaky chair to relieve the pressure between my legs. My phone kept singing, and Kyle cleared his throat as I mumbled my apologies and flipped it to silent. He waited, staring, while I blinked at him, and a solid minute must have passed before I fished a notepad from my drawer. “Go right ahead.”
He nodded, pleased yet obviously miffed I wasted an ounce of his time. “Seven-year-old female, presents with selective mutism and extreme social anxiety. She was referred to the interpersonal skills group that Quaranto is running, but that was not appropriate for the subject’s range of needs. The one thing the subject would share with Quaranto was her interest in a particular musician.” He flipped through his leather-bound journal, tracing a finger over the notes before looking up. “A band. One Direction.”
Kyle said the words as if they were another language, an upward inflection tagged onto the end to embed his removal from this little girl’s preferences. That kind of snobbery was rampant in music school, so much so that I barely noticed it anymore.
“There’s an opportunity to publish in here.” He set a file on top of my meager pile of graded essays, patting it twice like he was psyching it up to run the four-hundred meter dash. “You’re due to get another paper out.”
Kyle added some passing comments about clarifying my dissertation work and getting in on a research byline that would add some depth to my candidacy if I was hoping for tenure-track opportunities in the future. All the cheerful topics I knew and loved.
When he left, I blew out a heated breath that I’d been holding high in my ribs since Sam’s texts. My response was meant to rattle him, to give him shit about his incredibly hot reaction to the clichéd “what are you wearing” line. He could do better, of that I was certain, and I was comfortable telling him as much.
17:16 Sam:I beg your pardon?
17:17 Sam:Feeling a little hot and bothered? Do you need a minute to handle things?
17:17 Sam:let me know how it goes. I like details. I also like to watch.
17:18 Sam:pictures are always welcome
17:23 Sam:did you say you wanted to catch a show tonight? Should I meet you somewhere or pick you up?
17:24 Sam:yeah, you did mention a reggae show. Splendid. Interested in dinner?
17:29 Sam:are we good?
17:33 Tiel:do you text all your friends about coming on their nipples?
17:33 Tiel:or is it more like the same story and slightly different (always happy for you) endings?
17:34 Tiel:although it all comes (lol) down to your skill in fluid placement
17:35 Sam:you’re fucking hilarious
17:35 Sam:And when I text with my friend Nick, I can guarantee none of those conversations pertain to me coming anywhere near him. This was all for you, my friend
17:36 Tiel:For Nick’s sake, that’s probably good. pick me up at 730
17:36 Sam:wear that dress. I want to stare at your tits, friend
17:37 Tiel:anything you want, friend.
17:37 Sam:wait—does that include coming on your tits?
17:38 Tiel:would friends do that?
17:39 Sam:No. FRIENDS would not do that.
17:40 Sam:are we still friends?
17:40 Tiel:always
I tossed my phone to the desk and flopped back in my chair, unsatisfied and irritable, and in desperate need of some extensive alone time with my vibrator.
IT WAS ONE of the chilliest October weekends of the year, and I showed up at Tiel’s door with Thai food. She mentioned something about a recital earlier that morning and wanting to stay in tonight, and I was happy to oblige. We’d gone out most nights this week, and I was too freaking tired for much more than yam wunsen kung and a beer. I couldn’t even get it up for a sharp outfit, opting instead for jeans, a Cornell hoodie, and a long sleeved t-shirt. I managed some rainbow argyle socks, but only because they were on top of the pile.
I heard her violin’s squeal and hum from all the way down the hall, and though I had to think for a minute, I realized she was playing an old Rise Against song. I only knew it because she’d been singing parts of it for weeks, and now I couldn’t get it out of my head either.
The sound rose with smooth fury, and I listened, just leaning against her door. When she stopped, I waited, hoping I’d hear it again.
