Andi pauses, then turns the water off. She’s quiet for a long moment.
“That’s a huge pain in the ass,” she finally says in a tone of voice that I’m pretty sure meansI’ve never wanted anything more.
I walk to the bathroom door and lean against the frame, glancing past her at the tub. It’s pretty small—maybe two and a half feet by four feet, basically a wooden basin with a drain in the bottom—but that makes it easier to fill.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “Let me toss a few things in with your laundry and I’ll get you some hot water.”
“That’s not a fair trade.”
“Sure it is, if I don’t have to look at your greasy hair any more,” I tease, and Andi huffs and rolls her eyes.
“Your hair isalsogross,” she mutters. “You’regross. Go get me whatever it is you want me to wash.”
A few minutes later, there’s a giant stockpot full of water heating up over two burners on the stove and the sloshing sounds of the hand-cranked laundry machine coming in from the bathroom. I’ll need to refill the water tank in the kitchen, but that’s a problem for daylight, not right now. While it finishes heating, I lean against the kitchen counter and pretend I’m not watching Andi as she pulls herunmentionablesfrom the washer and hangs them on the lines strung over the bathtub, their presence already oddly familiar since she only brought enough for a few days.
Everything about Andi is like that: startlingly new and oddly familiar at the same time, like an old melody with new words. Like I know it, deep down, even if I don’t know exactly how to sing along yet. Andi’s just like I remember down to the millimeter, down to the hitch in her laugh, the freckles in her eyes.
When I woke up this morning, I was a million degrees and half-off a twin mattress, one arm under Andi’s head, her back to me. I came awake in stages, like you do: heat, light, the hardness of the floor under my left leg, Andi’s bare skin in front of me, rising and falling as she slept. I don’t know how long I watched her for, cataloguing the night before, making sure I slotted the memories away properly—did you like it? Jesus—warmth and the thump of her heart under my palm, every noise I could draw out of her. I thought about it until she stirred, not quite awake yet, and I could pull my arm from under her, drop a kiss on her bare shoulder, and get up.
Then I locked myself in the bathroom and got myself off, hard, fast and quiet, biting my lip against the desperate noises I wanted to make. It didn’t take long. I was barely done before the guilt set in—not deep, but always present—and I made bacon as penance.
When the water’s ready, Andi clears out so I can lug it into the bathroom and pour it into the tub without splashing too much anywhere, then top it off with the water in the bathroom tank. When I’m done it’s hot enough to turn my hand red, but that won’t last long.
I grab the pot and look around. No Andi.
“Bath’s ready,” I call, then hear something fall in the pantry.
“There’s bath stuff in here,” she says when I poke my head in. She’s on her tiptoes, a flashlight in one hand, the other elbow-deep into a shelf above her head.
My first instinct is to tell her to watch for snakes. I remind myself we’re indoors.
“It’s getting cold,” I tell her.
“Hold on,” she says, lurching upward on her tiptoes, the sweater she’s wearing sliding down her neck and exposing a patch of collarbone. It’s my sweater, of course, because that’s practically the only thing she’s worn for days now, as if she’s committed to making me lose my mind.
The leggings she’s wearing aren’t helping, nor is the way her stance highlights every tensed muscle in her legs. Nor are the effortful grunts she’s making as she reaches for whatever it is she’s—
“Aha!” Andi says, finally coming back to earth, holding something up and grinning. “I knew it!”
I squint into the darkness of the pantry, because her flashlight is unhelpfully pointed at the ceiling.
“Bubble bath!” she says, and her smile’s a confection, even in the odd light. “I think, at least. The label’s kinda worn off.”
She hands it to me and comes out of the pantry. The label is so old it’s just white. This bubble bath might remember the Reagan administration.
“There’s no way this still bubbles,” I tell her, but Andi just shrugs, still grinning.
“Only one way to find out,” she says, and before I know it, she’s leaning in to kiss me on the cheek, lighting my entire face on fire. “Thanks.”
Then she’s gone, the bathroom door closing behind her, and I’m out here not thinking about her being naked and slick and warm in the—fuck.
* * *
I’m pacing.It’s stupid, but I’m pacing, because Andi’s currently taking a bath—she istakingabathfor fuck’s sake—and I’ve been wondering all day how to make last night happen again, but I feel like I’m trying to negotiate in a language I barely speak.
I have, technically, done this before. I’ve been naked with women and brought them to orgasm, thanks, and I’ve enjoyed myself, but I’ve never before spent a full five minutes staring at a rock and thinking about the exact texture of someone’s nipple against my lips. I didn’t even realize it was an option.
What if I just—knocked. To see if she needs anything. I go before I can think better of it.
