She didn’t know. She only knew that when she thought of it, that panic got worse, not better. There was no relief following his note, or sense that she could just give in to it all now. Instead, she found her hands were shaking. Her palms were sweaty when she picked up her pen.
And she didn’t write what she had thought she wanted to.
I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,she scribbled.
Though of course that didn’t put an end to anything.
He just scribbled back, as calm and casual about it as she’d been frantic.
Didn’t you enjoy it?
That’s beside the point.
I enjoyed it.
The first letter was blacker than all the rest, as though he’d pressed down hard enough to almost snap his pencil. She couldn’t fail to notice it.
Though she tried.
Guys always do.
Not like that they don’t.
How was it different?
It was the wrong question to ask. She knew it. He took the paper from her incredibly quickly, and the writing he did never seemed to end. It went on and on, so messily scribbled she wasn’t sure she’d be able to read it when it did come back to her.
She was wrong about that, too, however.
She read it loud and clear in five-foot neon letters.
No one has ever made me come with barely a stroke over my dick. I sprayed all over your ass and back like a fucking teenager—and it felt that way, too. It felt like I’d never had an orgasm before. I didn’t know it could be like that, like you’re bursting, like you can’t take one ounce more pleasure, and then after we do that shit my fucking legs are always like rubber. The first time, I was still shaking twenty goddamn minutes after you left. The second time it was an hour before I could think straight. I’m still not thinking straight, because all I want to do is watch you moan and buck for me just like you did on my bed.
It took her a long while to reply. So long that she could tell he was getting impatient, even though she was barely looking. She watched him surreptitiously, from underneath her lowered eyelids, yet still caught him folding and unfolding his arms. And she could hear him after a second, too, cracking his knuckles one after the other like he used to do when he was bored in class.
Only now she wondered if it was boredom at all.
Most likely it was frustration at having to hide who he really was.
The way she had to hide the heat rolling through her body, right now.
Please don’t write things like that.
You asked. I’m just being honest.
It makes it harder for me when you say this stuff.
Makes what harder?
Being your friend. Please. I just want to be your friend.
It wasn’t what she expected to write. The words just pushed out of her, as strange to her as they were to him. He immediately scribbled backwhy,and it was only after he had that it dawned on her.
Because when you stop being my friend my life turns into a living hell.
She didn’t look up after she passed it to him. She was sure she wouldn’t look up, no matter what—but then he just took so much time to reply. There were no scratchings of his pencil, no curses as he stopped and started over. Just a long, endless silence as he processed what she was saying:if we are together like that, our inevitable break-up will put me right back where I started.
Though she wondered if he’d gotten the extra kick in the teeth there.
