Such a Fun Age(21)

“Really?” Kelley said. “You don’t strike me as a Green Party person.”

“I just type things.”

“How fast can you type?”

“I do 125.”

“Words per minute?!”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are you serious?”

Emira smiled. “Deadass.”

“Damn. I could definitely hook you up if you’re looking for more work,” Kelley said. “My office pays a shit ton for transcription.”

“Maybe I make a shit ton right now.” Ooo girl, you drunk, Emira told herself. The jacket on her back and hundred-dollar bills in her purse were giving her bravadoes she couldn’t contain.

Kelley held his hands up and said, “Fair.”

“What’s up with that, do you work in HR or something?” she asked. “The night I met you, you were like, ‘You should write an op-ed.’ Like, yeah, okay sure.”

Kelley leaned on the bar and stared upward at the bottles and bitters. “I did say that . . . Huh.” He squinted at Emira, and asked her quite honestly, “Am I an asshole?”

“You? Oh, for sure.” Emira nodded. “I mean . . . I don’t know from experience but like, just statistically speaking? One hundred percent. But it’s chill.”

“It’s chill?” He grinned.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“I think we should get a cab.” Kelley said this into her ear. It came out in a strangely offhanded way that sounded very hilarious in Emira’s haze. It was as if he were saying, I think you’re gonna need some stitches, or, Unfortunately, your card was declined.

Emira laughed and picked up her drink. With her straw in her mouth she said, “You’re lit.”

Kelley folded his hands and said, “So are you, miss.”

In the elevator up to Kelley’s apartment, Emira checked her phone. OH OKAY BYE BITCH, Zara texted. Trap trap trap trap get that l.l.bean dick gur. At the other side of the elevator, Kelley watched her with his back against the railing. Then he stood up straight and said, “Can I come over there or what?”

Inside, on a couch that felt pricey and firm, Emira sat facing Kelley on his lap as he held the back of her thighs. The space smelled boyish and also like laundry done with detergent that was marked Unscented. Above Kelley, hung tightly against his living room wall, was a massive framed blueprint of Allentown, Pennsylvania. Emira kissed him in the glow from an opened window until he pulled back and whispered, “Hey hey hey.”

Emira said, “Hmm?”

Kelley rested his head on the back of the couch. “You’re not like, twenty years old, are you?”

“No. I’m twenty-five.”

“Yikes, okay.” He put his hands behind his head. “I’m thirty-two.”

Emira stood up to remove her pants. “Okay.”

“That’s seven years older than you.”

“Uh-huh.” Emira laughed once as she moved forward to undo his belt buckle. “You’re like . . . really smart.”

“Okay, miss.” Kelley laughed. “I’m just making sure.”

In between strokes and kisses, Kelley pulled out a condom and placed it on the couch cushion to his left. It sat there like a peace offering or a panic button; a plastic symbol of consent. At one point, he lifted her hips and told her, “Sit up for me,” before he pressed her pelvic bone to his mouth. Emira said what she recognized as a very white expression, “Oh, you don’t have to . . .” By this she meant, I’d rather not return the favor when you’re done. Kelley seemed to understand her appeal. He laughed and said, “I know,” before he took her in his mouth again. He stopped once more to say, “Unless you’re not cool with it,” to which Emira quickly replied, “No, I am.” She balanced her hands and one knee on the back of the couch. For the second time that night she thought, You know what? Fuck it, and she took hold of the back of his head.

On her way back down Emira reached for the condom. That she stayed on top seemed implicit and implied.

Later, she was still quite drunk as she pulled out her phone and texted Zara, Where you at. Kelley had put on shorts and a T-shirt, and he brought a glass of ice water to her on the couch. He went back to the kitchen to drink his own as he looked at her across an island counter. The clock on his microwave read 1:10.

Emira reached for her shoes. “May I please have an Uber and a snack?”

Kelley reached for his phone. “You may have an Uber. But you get a snack when I get your number.”

Emira laughed. To her right, next to the record player, was a milk crate full of albums. “Why do you have the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack?” she asked. Other titles Emira could see were Chaka Khan and Otis Redding.

Kelley sighed, his eyes on his phone. “Because I have the music tastes of a middle-aged black woman,” he said.

Emira rolled her eyes, but Kelley didn’t catch it. Maybe Josefa was right and he did have a fetish. Emira almost asked him how many times he’d used that line, but instead she said, “You have nice things.” She was loose and tired and delighted. She looked around the room and took in the record player set, a chair that looked like it wasn’t from IKEA, a black coffeemaker on the kitchen counter that looked like it was from a wedding registry, and a bike and a tire pump leaning against the wall. Her head rolled to her left. “You have nice, adult things in here.”