The neighborhood was residential, lined with single-family houses and the occasional apartment building. Wet, brown leaves covered every car, curb, and grassy patch. We said nothing the entire walk to my car. I was getting wet, but he was soaked. His hair was dark brown with water, and his eyelashes stuck together in points of four or five. He looked down, hands in his pockets. He must have been freezing.
I stopped by my car. “This is me. Thanks for walking me.”
“You could have kept the car I got you.” He put his hand on the wet bark of the parkway tree.
“I know. I drove it to my meeting because this one wasn’t fixed yet. So, thanks for the loaner.”
“I don’t like us when we’re formal. All please and thank you.”
“What do you want then?” I crossed my arms.
He pursed his lips and looked at my feet, then back up to my face. “I want you to be real with me.”
“You want me to be real?”
“Yeah.”
“Real. You want real?”
“Real, goddess.”
“You blocked me, you motherfucker!” I pushed his shoulders, and he stepped back into the tree trunk. “I wrote you that song, and you were so disgusted, you blocked me.” I pushed him again, but he had nowhere to go.
“I had to.”
“Oh, let’s hear about that.”
“If you kept sending me shit like that, I was going to come back to you.”
“As opposed to what? This?” I spread my arms to indicate the block, the rain, our bodies almost touching, the fight over who was allowed to kiss me.
“I knew if I saw you again, I’d want you.” He was pleading, leaning forward, hands out as if passing me a basketball pumped full of pain. “That fucking mouth. As soon as it opened, I knew I’d want to kiss you. And those wet clothes sticking to you. And the hair plastered to your face. You’re custom made for me to hurt. Do you understand?”
I understood all too well. “Hurt me.”
“Monica, that’s not what I mean.”
“Ruin me.”
“Stop.”
I stepped forward. “Destroy me, Jonathan.”
He cursed under his breath and pushed his lips to mine. His movements were fierce, his tongue invading my mouth, his arms circling me. He tasted of fennel toothpaste and whiskey, the same as the first time I’d kissed him. The memories went down the curve in my back and settled between my legs. He pushed me into the car, pressing his erection into me, and I pushed back, letting his hardness find my cleft. I groaned into his mouth.
“God,” he said, “I have to have you.”
“Take me. Own me. Use me. Pick a verb. Just, please.”
“Fuck you. I’m going to fuck you. That’s my verb.”
He pushed his hips into me hard, and I bent my neck in response. My legs wrapped around him, grinding. Water dripped from his forehead onto mine as he kissed me. The rain had gone from a heavy mist to a driving torrent. He straightened and pulled me off the car.
“Take me home,” I practically had to shout over the weather.
He pushed me against the car and kissed me in the rain one more time.