The bedroom window is propped open, letting in cooler night air around the AC unit. The street traffic, drunk laughter, drifts up fromthe Italian restaurants down Mulberry. His bedsheets are dark blue, and they scratch against the back of her knees as the mattress dips under her weight.
The rip of foil, the initial glide of rubber—it all goes fast. Kicking her boots off, shimmying down her underwear.
“Are you, you know, clean? And like, on birth control?” he asks. “Yeah, both, but—use a condom.” “You sure? I’m clean, so if you are, too, I’m fine with it—” “No,” she insists. “Just use one.”
As he pushes into her, it’s not quite smooth, the awkwardness with a new body—numb, rubber of the condom, anonymized—as he figures out how to work into her best. She’s not wet. It’s a dry force.
He grunts when he’s fully inside of her, hips meeting hers. It’s visceral, the sudden, utter wrongness that scalds her, of someone else being inside of her like this. Her bitten-down nails dig into his shoulders. She feels like she’s about to scream. All of her logic, all of it, folds.
What is she doing?
What thefuckis she doing?
But she makes herself endure it. Past the building panic in her throat, past the agitated shake of her knee—she can get through this—if she just gets through this—
No, no, no, no, no—
She turns her head, looking out the half-open window. It lets in the blare of sirens, fluorescence from shops downstairs, burnt-down incense on the windowsill. A foreign, unwanted rhythm builds in her body.
She can’t stand for this to last any longer than it already has; she hitches her leg higher up. It provokes the punch of his breath with pleasure against her collarbone, even as all she wants is to force him off her. “Shit,” he breathes. Lili tries to drown out the sound of his voice with the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.
When he tries to kiss her neck, she strains her head away, falling back against the pillow.
The burn, the sense of cauterizing herself.
In her hair, his grip tightens each time he thrusts into her. His body feels like a violation. Her knee keeps shaking, and she feels like her chest is caving in.
She doesn’t want him to come inside of her. She’s glad—so fuckingglad—he’s wearing a condom, and when there’s a stifled groan against her shoulder, Lili flinches.
What the fuck has she done?
It’s a blur, not finishing, leaving.
She lets him rest, panting heavily over her body, for a moment, before she shoulders free.
Yanking her boots on, she grabs her shirt from the ground. When he tries to get her number, she gives a noncommittal shrug. Asks for his bathroom before she leaves, where she uses the toilet, splashes cold water on her face. She can’t look at herself.
She feels sick with emptiness, stepping out onto the street.
Shifting from foot to foot at the subway station on Bowery, she waits for the train near a cluster of drunk kids. Her friends have tried to call her, dozens of texts:(11:21 p.m.) where are you!!?Somehow, she taps out a response:(11:57 p.m.) sorry felt sick, went home.A homeless man, sitting on the platform bench, watches the flicker of train times on the digital arrivals screen.
She knows when he lands, as she gets back to her place, unlocking her apartment door. She knows because her phone buzzes, clutched against her keys, metal digging into her palm. A text, his name, and she can’t open it.
In the scalding shower, she scratches at her skin. Steam fills up the tiny bathroom, and she shakes under the water, red trail marks of her nails over her forearms, her hips.
She knows when he gets home—when he sees the keys on the counter, an empty bed, her things gone, little over a half hour later—because her phone lights up with an incoming call.
And then another, after the first one runs dead.
And another.
And another.
She curls up on her bed. Wet hair, soft shirt, knees tucked into her chest, she starts to cry.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Aleksandr Petrov.
