I got back home late—1:34, blinking on my bedside clock—but earlier than the rest of the house. The evening had begun in the living room, where the coffee table was now littered with empty cans and open bottles. I was drunk, overwhelmingly. I smoked a joint in the garden to mellow out. The night air was wet and cold, but I didn't mind. By the end of the joint things had become slower, softer, headier. I poured myself a glass of wine and walked down the rough carpet of the steps, and opened the door into your room.
The room is a large basement studio, sectioned in two with a curtain slightly to the right of the stairwell. No one comes down here but us, so privacy isn't a concern. Your room is dark and cluttered with sketches, books, trash and clothes. Your bed takes up most of the space; a dark four-poster frame with a boyish set of jersey blue sheets and a mismatched comforter. It looks so comfortable, and I consider climbing into it for a moment before I notice you sitting at your desk.
Your lamp wasn't on; that's why I missed you. You're illuminated instead by the electric glow of your laptop. Hello, I say, heavily slurring. You don't answer. I'm heartbroken until I see a thin black cord dangling by your side. Hm, I think, he must be busy. Suddenly self-conscious, I part the curtain and walk into my room.
Everything is awash with the pink lights which hang above my bed, nestled in a sheer white canopy of fabric. My bed is not like yours; it is smaller, and lies on a low, simple frame. The sheets are soft, cool and white. I take a sip of my drink as I walk across the room to a small couch and open my laptop to play music. Dreamy doo wop plays softly as I change out of my clothes and into a nightgown. I feel like Hedy Lamarr and imagine you as Clark Gable, taking me into your arms, spilling my wine, kissing me passionately...
I wake up to a weak knock on the wall. I've fallen asleep on the couch, wine in hand. A small panic rises in my heart as I wonder if I've spilled, but no, I don't see any stains. I take another sip and realize I haven't sobered at all. How long had it been?
You call my name. How do you make your voice sound like that? So distant but so warm.
Are you drunk?
I am very drunk.
You walk to the couch and take the wine in your hand. I look up at you, my face warm and flushed from sleep, and imagine that I must seem very demure in this position.
You smell like weed, you say.
I smoked weed, I say. A fleeting expression—of disapproval, or maybe just consideration—goes across your face. You say it's mostly in my hair, and ask, why don't you shower?
I am so tired, it can wait until the morning, I say, all I want to do is lie down and—
You laugh. It's a rich, commanding laugh, one like a teacher might give a student. My stomach flutters. You take my hand and drink the rest of the wine in a single gulp.
Hey! I say, I wanted that!
I'll make you something stronger, you tell me. You take my hand and lead me back through your room, to the bathroom.
We walk in. The room is thick with humidity—and warm, so warm. I realize the bath is full, and almost complain that he hadn't emptied it, until I realize he must have drawn it for me. I want to hug him and tell me that it was so sweet. I want him to brush his hands across the straps of my nightgown, slide them off my shoulders and pull down the thin fabric. I want him to lift me onto the counter and kiss me, kiss my neck, to pick me back up and bend me over and fuck me with his fingers while we lock eyes in the mirror and then to unbuckle his jeans, to fuck me hard against the cold ceramic, the hot, wet air making us sweat and pant. I want to take off your shirt and give your skin a hundred little bites, to unbuckle your belt and choke on your cock, to follow you into the bath and hold you and to take my honeysuckle soap and cover every inch of you in its lather.
I want to, but you say you'll be just outside if I need you, and you shut the door behind you. Roy Orbison begins to sing quietly through the door.
I slip myself out of my nightgown and into the tub. You must have taken a shower recently because the air still smells like your shampoo. Instead of reaching for my honeysuckle, I grab yours—a black bottle—and squeeze some into the palm of my hand. I think I'll wash my hair with it but instead I dip my hand into the bath, whirl it around, until the water around me is soapy and you-smelling. I smile and let the water warm my skin—every small wave is magnified and almost ecstatic. I sigh softly, and in the stillness of the room it seems much louder than I expected. Hm, I thought—and I moaned.
