It’s nearly three o’clock, and I haven’t yet left the house. I slept in, ate breakfast, and then took a nap. I’m finally getting around to starting the day.
I imagine Harry would have called by now. He hasn’t. What’s the rule now these days? Wait a week? It’s been nearly a month since the house party. Was it the kiss? I press my mouth to my forearm and test my Frenching skills like I did as a bored eighth-grader. Still good. Harry must be busy.
As I wash my face, I wonder about the other men. Surely some guy would have sniffed out my recent singleness. The last time I was single was in college, where troves of hormone-packed students flowed in and out of academic buildings and campus quick-marts. We practically rubbed up against each other to order burritos or check our mailboxes. I’m afraid in my new life, at this rate, I’ll run into a potential mate about as often as I change my toothbrush. When I pick it up, fruit flies fly out from the bristles. Not good.
I head outside to my porch. The summer is quiet. Little noises—a buzzing mosquito, a distant wind chime—sound exaggerated these days. Occasionally, some kid lights a firework left over from the holiday weekend. Many residents have decamped to the Blue Ridge Mountains or up north to Cape Cod or Maine to cool off. Those who remain retreat indoors into the air-conditioning. But after long days inside my windowless office—working through the holiday weekend—I’ll take the heat. I sit on a wire chair; just over the rail is a panoramic vista of quaint buildings, terra-cotta rooftops, quirky chimneys, and plenty of sky. The air is sticky hot. Every few minutes, a gust lifts my shirt, as if to try to see what’s underneath.
Martha’s voice pierces the silence. I lean over the railing, look through the branches of a crepe myrtle. She’s walking beside a man. It’s Harry. She didn’t return my calls inviting her out for drinks. We haven’t spoken for weeks. But here she is now, bringing him back; she’s forgiven me.
Dashing inside, I whack my couch pillows into shape, kick the rug straight. I stash the dirty dishes in the oven, hide my half-eaten pasta in the back of the fridge, and run a damp rag over the countertops.
I fly into my bedroom, scoop up my underwear and inside-out pants. I shove everything in the hamper, clean or dirty. I’m straightening the sheets when I hear the knock. “Coming!”
The bathroom situation needs assessing. When did I get so messy? I ball up loose strings of dental floss and swipe the toilet top’s dust bunnies with my bare hand. My engagement ring remains hidden on the top shelf of my medicine cabinet.
More knocking. Shit. In front of the mirror, I rake my hair with my hands to volumize it, make sure nothing is stuck in my teeth. No time to change. Opening the door, I’m careful not to sound breathy. “Well, hello, strangers.”
Martha stomps past me and walks up the stairs; a six-pack of PBR bangs against her thigh.
“Hey, Simons.” Harry’s smile is mischievous, lopsided. His faded orange T-shirt reads “Georgia Made.” It’s emblazoned with a large peach that sports a provocative crevice. Leading Harry upstairs, I add a little sway to my hips.
Martha shuts the door to the porch and cranks up the window unit to full blast. “You keep it too hot in here, hippie.” Her shirt, a feminine button-down with tiny polka dots, flutters in the draft of the AC. She wears lipstick again, but it’s worn off a bit. “I stuck the beers in the freezer. They need some time to chill.”
“I think I’ve got the ingredients for a gin and tonic. Want one?” They both say yes.
When I return to the living room, Martha is staring at Harry, her head dipped to the side, revealing her swanlike, creamy neck. Harry stares back at her. I feel like I’ve walked in on a conversation, but a soundless one, with no words exchanged.
My phone, facedown on the coffee table, buzzes. I reach for it, but Martha snatches it first. “It’s Trip. Our little princess has two gentleman callers.”
I grab the phone from her and silence it.
“Aw, come on. We could put him on speaker, have a little group chat.”
The room temperature rises twenty degrees. I look at Martha, my eyes boring into hers, imploring her to shut up.
“Don’t look so worried. I’m leaving.” Martha heads for the door. Her boots pound down the hollow stairs. The old street door bangs shut. And just like that, it’s me and Harry. I blink stupidly, carrying three glasses in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell happened.
Harry appears unfazed. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Now what to say? In the wake of the bizarre delivery of him by Martha, I’m utterly confused. But here he is, the man who first made me feel what it was to want a man. He snuck me out of school. He took me to the Waffle House. Then he stopped calling. But now he’s back in my life. The universe has granted me a chance for bravery—with a rebel, to boot.
He lifts a shoe box of CDs off my shelf.
“The guy who had the apartment before me said I could have them.”
His fingers walk over the spines of the cases; I imagine those fingers walking between my breasts, past my belly button. I cross my legs.
“The Dookie album. Muse. Whoa, Alien Ant Farm? I haven’t heard these in forever. Here, put this on.” He hands me a White Stripes album. “The drummer is a chick.”
He taps a foot to the rhythm. The sun starts to set. I suck on my lime. The CD stops. He moves to sit closer. I ask him about the concerts he’s played. We share Martha’s drink. The bony sliver of a moon slides to the middle of a windowpane. He touches my neck; my cheeks burn. I stand to make another round.
“Uh-uh.” He snags a finger through my belt loop.
I pause, frozen. What do I do? Well, I certainly can’t make any decisions unless I collect some data. Experimentation is the prudent choice to make, right? He leans back, slides me on top of him. I run my hands over his shoulders and chest. It’s impossible not to compare his body to Trip’s. It’s not better or worse; it’s just not Trip, which feels traitorous. Best not to think. We kiss; he tastes like gin. His mouth finds its way to my ear; his hot breath melts what’s left of my rational brain.
He peels off his shirt, then mine. With one hand, in a quick snap, he expertly removes my bra. We look at each other, eye to eye, skin to skin, soul to soul, for a short but thick moment. Am I ready to have sex? We haven’t even been on a proper date yet. The cherubs on my mantel watch me with judgmental eyes. I’m no angel, I decide. I take his hand and guide him to my bedroom.
“Are you on the pill?”
I am, but I am afraid of STDs. I’ve never had sex with anyone other than Trip. “Do you have a condom?”
“No,” he says, and I am glad he’s not the kind of guy to be going around with a condom in his wallet. I think? “I’ll pull out.”
I feel a twitch of uncertainty. “Okay.” I nod, and with that his strong arms seize my sides. He flings me onto the bed.
I am disoriented by his strength, scared and excited. He climbs on top of me, but just when I think he’s done tossing me around, he lies on his back. “I want you on top.”
A trace of light reaches from the lamppost and into my room, just enough to put me on display. In this grayscale light, Harry can probably see that my left breast is slightly bigger than my right, and that I haven’t shaved my bikini line in a week. I suck in a little to shrink my stomach.
“Mmm . . . right there.” He lowers me onto him. I wince for a moment. It hurts a little, but don’t people talk about the mix of pleasure and pain?
I find myself moaning and gasping for air. I see flashes of green and white, shooting stars. He moves quicker and quicker; I become nothing but a vessel of pleasure. Soon he quits thrusting and lifts me off him. He turns to the side, his body quivering, and then is still.
While sex is—generally—a two-person deal, in this moment I feel alone in the best way, like the first-place winner at the top of the podium, gold medallion and all. By having sex with another man, I’ve halved some sort of claim Trip had over my body. I was his alone. Now, I’ve shared myself with someone else, of my own accord.
I did it. I had sex, and with a sexy musician. The big moment is over, and I’m A-okay, happy even. I still have ten fingers, ten toes. Everything turned out just fine. Martha’s right: curiosity doesn’t kill every cat.
* * *
Early-morning sun blanches the floors and walls, enveloping the room in a temporary haze. Harry is not in the bed. Through the slit between the door and the frame, I see him lean into the sink, bend over, and suck water from the faucet. I wonder if he used my toothbrush.
He emerges from the bathroom, his eyes puffy, fully clothed. “Good morning” I say, as casually as possible.
“I thought you were asleep.” He crosses the room, his eyes on the floor. “Have you seen my shoes?”
I sit up and summon a big smile, conjuring an independent woman who can have sex—or not—and not get attached. “They’re probably next to the couch.”
He walks over to give me a hug, the kind of side-hug I was taught to give to campers when I was a junior counselor at Camp Ton-a-Wandah. “I’ll call you soon.”
I gather the covers just sloppily enough to reveal a little boob. “Bye,” I say, biting my lower lip and giving him what I hope is a super-sexy look. He smiles back, and I see his eyes catch sight of my left breast—the bigger one—before he pivots and heads out of my room, down my apartment stairs.
I wonder when he’ll call. Tonight?
I pick up my phone and see yesterday’s missed call from Trip. He had sent a text then, too: “I heard Laudie isn’t doing well. Please tell her I say hello.” I wait for a twinge of guilt to trickle over me, having completed the most visceral step in our separation, but I feel nothing other than tenderness for Trip. How sweet it is of him to think of her. But wait a minute, how would he know about Laudie?