hands.
“Look,” she said, “I’m not so good at this part. I had a really nice time tonight, but I’m not going to ask you up, and I just want to be clear about that.”
“I wasn’t expecting to come up.”
“Oh.” She seemed a little disappointed.
“But I would like to see you again. Are you free tomorrow?”
The look of slight disappointment on her face transformed to a look of delight. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
In the seemingly endless hours before he was to see her again, she tantalized his thoughts. Her hair, her scent, the curve of her waist. The press of her body against his, her laugh, her clever mind. He felt light-headed with excitement when he saw her waiting outside the agreed-upon restaurant.
They ate Indian food and drank beer; conversation was effortless, the laughs plentiful. She kept surprising him. Her wit was sly, her sense of confidence palpable. She had strong opinions about current events and a real passion for her work designing playgrounds for a small firm that specialized in green construction.
At one point in the evening, as their conversation zinged and buzzed and tingled, Rob observed to Ellie that they had brain speed. Without missing a beat, she agreed, “We do, don’t we?” Rob felt his shell splinter. Brain speed. His own private term for the rare instances when conversation with another person was so much on the same wavelength that all awkward pauses disappeared and the flow of words ebbed and eddied, peaked and drifted, dipped and crescendoed at an identical pace. The fact that she understood the term without explanation seemed just another example of how extraordinary their connection was. But as he relaxed with her more and more, his brain fired electric neon hazard warnings. He fought to quell them. Why wasn’t he entitled to love and companionship? Why couldn’t he have the things so many others took for granted?
He emerged from his thoughts to find Ellie studying him quizzically.
“Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m right here.” He reached across the table and took her hand. He looked deeply into her eyes and had the sensation he was free-falling from a great height. Nothing had ever felt like this. Without another word, he signaled for the check. They left the restaurant and he put his arm around her shoulders. They fell into step with each other, as easily as if they had done it a million times before. At the corner they turned to each other and kissed. The urgency that arose in both of them was crazy—crazy good, crazy scary. By the time they were in the lobby of her building their hands were everywhere, their clothes loosening. A button popped off his shirt and landed on the tile floor with a ping.
As they pushed open the front door of her apartment after a frustrating fumble with the keys, he lifted her, and her legs wrapped around his waist, her small shoulder bag bouncing and swinging against her ass. He carried her, kissing her, not looking where he was going and not caring. The first room he found was the tiny kitchen and he sat her down on the little table. She watched him, her eyes wild, her hair mussed. She kicked off her shoes and yanked up her skirt, impatiently tearing at her tights until they puddled on the floor. Then she sat back a little, her bare legs open just a hint, her creamy white thighs an invitation.
“We need to be safe.”
For a second he was bewildered. Had she somehow read his mind? Did she too know that safe was the last thing he was? But, no, she reached into her little bag, which was now on the table beside her, and pulled out a condom.
Relief flooded him. And the rush of that relief coupled with the heat of his desire left the events that followed a strange pastiche of sharp, discrete memories: the surprising sight of her strawberry-blond, neatly trimmed bush, darker than her hair color, the feel of her small breasts with their large nipples, kissing the jagged little scar that ran along her left hip, the feel of
“Look,” she said, “I’m not so good at this part. I had a really nice time tonight, but I’m not going to ask you up, and I just want to be clear about that.”
“I wasn’t expecting to come up.”
“Oh.” She seemed a little disappointed.
“But I would like to see you again. Are you free tomorrow?”
The look of slight disappointment on her face transformed to a look of delight. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
In the seemingly endless hours before he was to see her again, she tantalized his thoughts. Her hair, her scent, the curve of her waist. The press of her body against his, her laugh, her clever mind. He felt light-headed with excitement when he saw her waiting outside the agreed-upon restaurant.
They ate Indian food and drank beer; conversation was effortless, the laughs plentiful. She kept surprising him. Her wit was sly, her sense of confidence palpable. She had strong opinions about current events and a real passion for her work designing playgrounds for a small firm that specialized in green construction.
At one point in the evening, as their conversation zinged and buzzed and tingled, Rob observed to Ellie that they had brain speed. Without missing a beat, she agreed, “We do, don’t we?” Rob felt his shell splinter. Brain speed. His own private term for the rare instances when conversation with another person was so much on the same wavelength that all awkward pauses disappeared and the flow of words ebbed and eddied, peaked and drifted, dipped and crescendoed at an identical pace. The fact that she understood the term without explanation seemed just another example of how extraordinary their connection was. But as he relaxed with her more and more, his brain fired electric neon hazard warnings. He fought to quell them. Why wasn’t he entitled to love and companionship? Why couldn’t he have the things so many others took for granted?
He emerged from his thoughts to find Ellie studying him quizzically.
“Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m right here.” He reached across the table and took her hand. He looked deeply into her eyes and had the sensation he was free-falling from a great height. Nothing had ever felt like this. Without another word, he signaled for the check. They left the restaurant and he put his arm around her shoulders. They fell into step with each other, as easily as if they had done it a million times before. At the corner they turned to each other and kissed. The urgency that arose in both of them was crazy—crazy good, crazy scary. By the time they were in the lobby of her building their hands were everywhere, their clothes loosening. A button popped off his shirt and landed on the tile floor with a ping.
As they pushed open the front door of her apartment after a frustrating fumble with the keys, he lifted her, and her legs wrapped around his waist, her small shoulder bag bouncing and swinging against her ass. He carried her, kissing her, not looking where he was going and not caring. The first room he found was the tiny kitchen and he sat her down on the little table. She watched him, her eyes wild, her hair mussed. She kicked off her shoes and yanked up her skirt, impatiently tearing at her tights until they puddled on the floor. Then she sat back a little, her bare legs open just a hint, her creamy white thighs an invitation.
“We need to be safe.”
For a second he was bewildered. Had she somehow read his mind? Did she too know that safe was the last thing he was? But, no, she reached into her little bag, which was now on the table beside her, and pulled out a condom.
Relief flooded him. And the rush of that relief coupled with the heat of his desire left the events that followed a strange pastiche of sharp, discrete memories: the surprising sight of her strawberry-blond, neatly trimmed bush, darker than her hair color, the feel of her small breasts with their large nipples, kissing the jagged little scar that ran along her left hip, the feel of
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