Her sweater’s oversized. Slipping off one shoulder. And right there at the hem — where it rides up on her left side — there’s a sliver of skin just above the waistband. Just enough.
I look at the ceiling.
Locked. That’s going in the spank bank.
The sheet has immediate and deeply inconvenient opinions about this.
“You’re not the replacement.” My voice is steady, controlled, giving absolutely nothing away. Considering the circumstances, that’s a minor miracle.
“I got turned around looking for the storage room,” she says. “I didn’t know I’d be walking into—” She stops. Looks at the table. At me on the table. “This.”
“Replacement cancelled,” I say. “Not me.”
“You can’t cancel yourself.”
“Correct.”
“So you’ve just been lying here.”
“Eight minutes.”
“Just waiting.”
“Yes.”
She looks at the door. I look at the ceiling.
“You have hands,” I say. “Shoulder needs doing. Math’s pretty simple.”
Silence.
I wait.
“Lotion,” I say, pointing to the counter. “Two pumps.”
She turns to get it. I catch a glimpse.
I look at the ceiling immediately.
The sheet is not interested in being reasonable.
“Walk me through it,” she says.
“Come here first.”
She comes to stand beside the table. Puts her hands on my shoulder.
Cold. Ice-coffee cold. She’s been holding that cup all morning and her hands are freezing. I feel it everywhere and cold is genuinely the least of it.
“More pressure,” I say.
She leans in.
The sweater slips again. The hem rides up on her left side and there’s that strip of skin again and—
I find a new section of ceiling. Far corner. Unexplored. Very flat up there.
“More.”
