I don’t reply. He’s right.
My silence stretches.
Ethan: Tell me what you were thinking when you took the picture.
My stomach flips.
Me: I was joking.
Ethan: You don’t joke like that.
I press my lips together.
Me: I’d had wine.
Ethan: And?
I hesitate.
Me: And I was tired of feeling ignored.
The reply comes slower this time.
Ethan: Ignored by who?
Me: By men who act like I don’t exist unless they want something from me.
A pause.
Ethan: I’ve never ignored you.
My stomach does a full gymnastics routine as I imagine him in front of me, saying those exact words in that honey-smoked voice that turns my IQ to soup.
Me: You barely look at me.
Ethan: I look at you plenty.
My cheeks go up in flames. God, what iswrongwith me? One line and my whole body votes yes.
Me: Then why does it feel like you don’t see me?
The dots blink, vanish, return.
Ethan: Because if I let myself look the way I want to, I wouldn’t stop.
My breath catches hard.
Me: That’s not appropriate.
Ethan: Neither is pretending you don’t know what you do to a man when you walk into a room.
My thighs shift apart slightly before I can stop myself.
Me: You don’t get to talk about me like that.
Ethan: You like it.
I stare at the screen, pulse racing.
