Yolk(53)

It’s as if the transmission was fed into an earpiece, it’s so fully formed and not mine.

I smile silkily. I look crazy. I suck in my cheeks and make fish lips. Clear my throat. Suck in my gut, let it out. Take another sip. Put the glass down on the counter and slap the apples of my cheeks with the pads of my flattened fingers. I drink even more, warming my insides. I want a third glass and listen for the running water, but I shouldn’t risk it.

I settle on the couch, wishing there was music on. Arrange my arms and legs so they don’t flatten against the leather and appear wide. Even with the boozy buzz, another layered distraction would be good. I can’t deal with bodies. The smells, the tastes, all that rubbing, the occasional mortifying flatulence if my chest suction cups his in a way that I wish we could laugh about but never do. It’s the worst. Usually he’ll grunt in a porny way, masking it, so I’ll do the same in a whinier, pleading tone, and we’ll both keep ignoring it because breaking character would reveal how fucking embarrassing it all is.

Consent?

Yes.

Yes?

It’s like a spell we’re taught the words to, but how do you cast it? Where am I supposed to stand? What do I do with my arms? There should be a laminated poster in all bedrooms. The way restaurants have Heimlich maneuver guides. Why is the invocation so awkward? All the sex I’ve ever had seemed inevitable. It wasn’t wrought but ordained. It was like watching someone fall from a height. We all know where it’s going.

I hold an ice cube in my mouth to quiet my brain. I know this will be different. It has to be. When Patrick returns to the couch, back in sweats, I climb onto his lap, on my knees, facing him, and touch my lips to his. He tastes like toothpaste. His mouth is cold, then warm. The alcohol begins to blur the lines, soothe the spikiness of my thoughts, the impatience. I feel and hear the tremble, a low rumble in his throat. His hands find their way to my waistband and pull me into him. I pull away a fraction. His face is blurry up close, and for a brief moment, as if a single foreign frame has been spliced into the reel, reality warps and my mouth is full of some random I hooked up with the first time Jeremy left. I never learned his name.

I pull away completely.

Wordlessly, I get up, take his hand, and lead him toward his bedroom. He follows.

Everything is as I’ve left it. Queen bed. Striped linens. But in the blued afternoon light, each article throbs with a new significance. The bedside table with a stack of books. His half-drunk water. Reading glasses.

I insert myself into his future. Slot my copy of The Secret History onto his table. A scrunchie by his water glass. If I leave something—an earring, my compact, an eyelash—it would secure my safe passage back.

I wonder if we’ll know each other after this.

I sit on the edge of his bed while he stands. Watching. The rest is muscle memory. Old choreography. I touch the soft hem of my sweatshirt, holding his gaze while I pull it off, judging from his expression how much he’s into this. Into me. How much of him I’ll get to keep afterward.

He drinks me in. I’m not wearing a bra. I tug on his pant leg, and he joins me on the bed. We’re kissing, scooching higher up on the mattress as he lies on top of me. From this angle he could be anyone. I close my eyes, waiting. But then the warmth of him leaves. He pulls away, propping himself up. I peek just as he hooks his finger against my cheek—pulling—and a hair slides out from the back of my throat, tickling the wet of my mouth, and is freed. It’s such a small movement. Tender. Patient. There’s a pleasant buzzing in my ears as my senses go all syrupy, and then the room snaps into focus. That Patrick would consider my comfort above his even for a moment grounds me back into my body. I freeze.

“Let’s pump the brakes a little,” he says, studying me. I nod. He pushes away and lies on his back, holding my hand as we stare up at the ceiling.

I raise his hand to my mouth and kiss it. “Do guys hate the taste of lipstick?”

I feel the tremor of him laughing beside me. “What?”

“I don’t know… Is it a thing where you like the way it looks but hate the way it tastes?” I shift to my side and kiss his cheek.

“I have never noticed that it has a taste, and I have no real opinion on its appearance. I guess it’s nice.”

He goes quiet. “Is this a quiz?” he asks after a while. “I’m trying to remember if you were wearing lipstick last night.”

This time I laugh. “No. I just had this dumb thought that men have these strong feelings, but I don’t know where it came from.”

“I like mouths,” he says, facing me and kissing mine. “Humans like mouths. I’m indifferent to the ornamentation, I think.”

We lie there for a while. Listening to the street. Not talking. I want to ask him about everyone he’s ever slept with.

I creep closer to him, pressing my entire body to his side as he rearranges us so that I’m nestled in his arm. You’re mine, I think, wondering if he can read my mind. How else would he have known that for all my bluster, I needed a moment to breathe? That I was scared of all we stood to lose? That I wanted to know him first?

“I think I’m going to get going now,” I whisper after a while. It’s better to go before they want you to.

He turns to me, expression unreadable. “Let me get you a car.”

My heart sings. It’s such a small gesture, but I’m grateful for the offer. I shake my head. Hopefully he’ll see my refusal as I intend it. That I don’t take up too much space. That I’m agreeable, low-maintenance, chill. I decide not to leave anything on his nightstand. It wouldn’t work on a Patrick.