He turns away from me, peeling off layers of clothing without a shred of urgency. From his bag, he pulls out a neatly labelled shower kit, setting it on the counter.
He looks at me through the vanity mirror. “Nothing to say?”
“You called me pathetic, remember?” I try to shield my eyes to convey my annoyance. “Why do you want a pathetic woman talking to you?”
“I don’t know, why did you ask a man you hate into your bed?Again?”
“The better question is why did you come?”
For the first time since he got here, he cracked a laugh. “I don’t know myself.”
I peep through my eye cover and watch him continue his ritual. I don’t mean to stare. But when his briefs drop, so does my gaze.
“Oh,” he says lightly, catching it. “Now you wanna look? You were quick enough to dismiss my video.”
He turns on the water, steam already beginning to fog the mirror.
“Like I said,” I mutter, “it was quiet.”
“You try recording anything,” he replies, stepping into the shower, “in a bathroom stall during a fifteen-minute halftime. All while your team mates are in and out.”
I stand closer, so close that the mist of the shower sprays my face.
“Not my problem.”
“Right.” The water starts running over his chest. “Just get in.”
And just like that, any sense I had left disappears. Along with my clothes.
The water is hot, so hot steam fills the room instantly but he just goes about his business. It doesn’t matter to me because all I do is watch, like an awkward little perv.
“Sooo,” I try. “How was your game?”
Ugh. What is wrong with me? Why am I so off my game? And why—WHY? Why the hell am I so nervous?
“Game was fine. We won but it could’ve been better.”
And that’s it.
“Good. Good,” I’m practically shaking with nerves. “So… you like football then?”
OH MY GOD!
He pauses. “Do I like football?”—WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?—“You hit your head or something?”
“Must’ve.”—I hate my life.—“I’m gonna go now. Enjoy your shower!”
I barely make it out before the water cuts. “Francine.”
I freeze. “Yes?”
“Come here.”
Slowly, I approach him. With the steam settling around us, it feels like a scene from a movie.
“You nervous, Jelly?” He asks.
I just look down, trying to avoid the elephant, and its ’trunk’ in the room.
