“Never?” It shocked her a little. She hadn't considered that a man like Milo had anything but insanely passionate encounters.
He shook his head, drawing a little circle on the back of her hand.
“Never. There’s something that happens between us I can’t describe, it’s crazy.”
“I know. Milo?—”
“I know what we said, and I promise you that, come Sunday, I will get my shit together. But can we just pretend for now that we’re not on a deadline?”
He looked so earnest and she wished she’d never suggested the time box in the first place. She hated the fact that he was feeling bound to it.
She nodded and soaked in the view.
He was right, they could still enjoy their night. Everything could wait until Sunday.
The Uber back was filled with the kind of tension that only existed when she’d already figured out the ending of a movie, but not quite how they get there.
It wasn’t the will-they-won’t-they, Ross-and-Rachel shit. It was when, not if, and the way Milo crawled his hand up her dress, the answer was sooner rather than later.
His finger traced paths on her upper thigh, dancing dangerously close to the point of no return. Once he crossed that line, it was on, and he knew it. So he stayed just to the side of it, teasing and touching, giving her the dirtiest fucking look he could as she debated whether or not to give the driver a free show.
He dropped them off just a few blocks from the loft and Milo pulled her into a loud bar, buzzing with the Friday night crowd.
They headed to the long countertop at the back of the room, watching the bartender take care of a few others before Milo ordered for them—two bourbons—but she couldn’t focus on what he was saying. He pressed her into the bar from behind, his body enveloping hers.
While they waited, he took one hand and dipped it around her hip, reaching for her inner thigh. She pushed into him, arching her back in what she hoped was a subtle enough way that no one around them raised an eyebrow, but she could tell it made him reevaluate how far he wanted to push it with an audience.
“Take me home,” she pleaded. She loved the way he teased, but she needed more. He shook his head and put a little distance between them, taking a deep breath.
“One more drink,” he said, handing her whatever he’d ordered. She slammed it back, which was no small feat. It was a rough motherfucker.
Milo burst into laughter. “Okay, okay, loud and clear.”
He sipped his whiskey intensely, and way too slowly. She ran her hands along his stomach, flicking the stupid buttons on his stupid shirt. She wanted them gone.
“Hanna, as much as I love this enthusiasm, I’m having a really great night with you. I promise the moment we’re back in the apartment, I’m going to do every depraved thing you want, but right now I’d love to just enjoy this.”
She sensed that he almost said "before it's over," but it died on his tongue.
She took in a sharp breath and sighed loudly. “Okay, fine. You want Date Night Hanna? You get Date Night Hanna. Buy me another drink and I’ll behave,” she promised.
She humored Milo for another hour, answering his questions about her favorite movies, books, and songs—everything he could possibly want to know, he asked.
And she had questions too.
She wanted to know his nieces and nephews’ names, the first girl who’d ever hurt him, and which tattoo had been the most painful.
“You know,” he said, his words running together. “Tattoos are strikingly similar to grief.”
She swirled her glass, one finger tracing the black line of the clock on his forearm.
“Painful?” Hanna asked.
He nodded, his head tilting. “Well yeah, that.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But the ink, once it’s injected, your body panics, right? And it sends all these little cells that attack foreign substances, macrophages, to the site to help fight off infection and get it the fuck out of there. They ingest all the ink, but they can’t break it down, so it just stays there, frozen, trapped in your skin. It fades over time, sure, but it never goes away—it just becomes part of you. Millions of little black moments, caught in these well-intended cells that can never get rid of them, but… from far enough away, it’s art.”
Hanna swallowed, her fingers stuck on the edge of the clock, unable to move as she considered it—the beauty in being trapped. The poetry of ingestion.
She dipped her head, pressing her lips to the edge of the black lines, hoping one day hers might be art too. Her eyes fell on the final drops of liquid in her glass and she wondered if maybe losses like theirs were not so different from whiskey, either.
