out.”
Kyle added some passing comments about clarifying my dissertation work and getting in on a research byline that would add some depth to my candidacy if I was hoping for tenure-track opportunities in the future. All the cheerful topics I knew and loved.
When he left, I blew out a heated breath that I’d been holding high in my ribs since Sam’s texts. My response was meant to rattle him, to give him shit about his incredibly hot reaction to the clichéd “what are you wearing” line. He could do better, of that I was certain, and I was comfortable telling him as much.
17:16 Sam: I beg your pardon?
17:17 Sam: Feeling a little hot and bothered? Do you need a minute to handle things?
17:17 Sam: let me know how it goes. I like details. I also like to watch.
17:18 Sam: pictures are always welcome
17:23 Sam: did you say you wanted to catch a show tonight? Should I meet you somewhere or pick you up?
17:24 Sam: yeah, you did mention a reggae show. Splendid. Interested in dinner?
17:29 Sam: are we good?
17:33 Tiel: do you text all your friends about coming on their nipples?
17:33 Tiel: or is it more like the same story and slightly different (always happy for you) endings?
17:34 Tiel: although it all comes (lol) down to your skill in fluid placement
17:35 Sam: you’re fucking hilarious
17:35 Sam: And when I text with my friend Nick, I can guarantee none of those conversations pertain to me coming anywhere near him. This was all for you, my friend
17:36 Tiel: For Nick’s sake, that’s probably good. pick me up at 730
17:36 Sam: wear that dress. I want to stare at your tits, friend
17:37 Tiel: anything you want, friend.
17:37 Sam: wait—does that include coming on your tits?
17:38 Tiel: would friends do that?
17:39 Sam: No. FRIENDS would not do that.
17:40 Sam: are we still friends?
17:40 Tiel: always
I tossed my phone to the desk and flopped back in my chair, unsatisfied and irritable, and in desperate need of some extensive alone time with my vibrator.
IT WAS ONE of the chilliest October weekends of the year, and I showed up at Tiel’s door with Thai food. She mentioned something about a recital earlier that morning and wanting to stay in tonight, and I was happy to oblige. We’d gone out most nights this week, and I was too freaking tired for much more than yam wunsen kung and a beer. I couldn’t even get it up for a sharp outfit, opting instead for jeans, a Cornell hoodie, and a long sleeved t-shirt. I managed some rainbow argyle socks, but only because they were on top of the pile.
I heard her violin’s squeal and hum from all the way down the hall, and though I had to think for a minute, I realized she was playing an old Rise Against song. I only knew it because she’d been singing parts of it for weeks, and now I couldn’t get it out of my head either.
The sound rose with smooth fury, and I listened, just leaning against her door. When she stopped, I waited, hoping I’d hear it again.
Instead, I got a text asking where I was with the red curry and pad kee mao.
“Sorry,” I said when she opened the door. “I was enjoying the show.”
She glanced at the bow in her hand and shrugged. “Yeah, it is not where I want it yet. We’re not posting that one anytime soon,” she sighed.
Like a creepy dick, I Googled her last month. I didn’t know what compelled me to do it, but I was sitting in my office one afternoon, talking myself off the ledge from another futile argument with Shannon, and decided to look up Miss Desai. It was that, or start another filthy text conversation and I couldn’t walk around construction sites with an erection. Again. That was begging for trouble.
I expected to find her course syllabus, maybe a bio on the college website, and the standard social media fare.
I found a YouTube channel with two dozen clips, each boasting more than a half million hits. She played popular songs—Fall Out Boy, Tom Petty, Paramore, Muse, The Shins, Britney Spears, Hot Chelle
Kyle added some passing comments about clarifying my dissertation work and getting in on a research byline that would add some depth to my candidacy if I was hoping for tenure-track opportunities in the future. All the cheerful topics I knew and loved.
When he left, I blew out a heated breath that I’d been holding high in my ribs since Sam’s texts. My response was meant to rattle him, to give him shit about his incredibly hot reaction to the clichéd “what are you wearing” line. He could do better, of that I was certain, and I was comfortable telling him as much.
17:16 Sam: I beg your pardon?
17:17 Sam: Feeling a little hot and bothered? Do you need a minute to handle things?
17:17 Sam: let me know how it goes. I like details. I also like to watch.
17:18 Sam: pictures are always welcome
17:23 Sam: did you say you wanted to catch a show tonight? Should I meet you somewhere or pick you up?
17:24 Sam: yeah, you did mention a reggae show. Splendid. Interested in dinner?
17:29 Sam: are we good?
17:33 Tiel: do you text all your friends about coming on their nipples?
17:33 Tiel: or is it more like the same story and slightly different (always happy for you) endings?
17:34 Tiel: although it all comes (lol) down to your skill in fluid placement
17:35 Sam: you’re fucking hilarious
17:35 Sam: And when I text with my friend Nick, I can guarantee none of those conversations pertain to me coming anywhere near him. This was all for you, my friend
17:36 Tiel: For Nick’s sake, that’s probably good. pick me up at 730
17:36 Sam: wear that dress. I want to stare at your tits, friend
17:37 Tiel: anything you want, friend.
17:37 Sam: wait—does that include coming on your tits?
17:38 Tiel: would friends do that?
17:39 Sam: No. FRIENDS would not do that.
17:40 Sam: are we still friends?
17:40 Tiel: always
I tossed my phone to the desk and flopped back in my chair, unsatisfied and irritable, and in desperate need of some extensive alone time with my vibrator.
IT WAS ONE of the chilliest October weekends of the year, and I showed up at Tiel’s door with Thai food. She mentioned something about a recital earlier that morning and wanting to stay in tonight, and I was happy to oblige. We’d gone out most nights this week, and I was too freaking tired for much more than yam wunsen kung and a beer. I couldn’t even get it up for a sharp outfit, opting instead for jeans, a Cornell hoodie, and a long sleeved t-shirt. I managed some rainbow argyle socks, but only because they were on top of the pile.
I heard her violin’s squeal and hum from all the way down the hall, and though I had to think for a minute, I realized she was playing an old Rise Against song. I only knew it because she’d been singing parts of it for weeks, and now I couldn’t get it out of my head either.
The sound rose with smooth fury, and I listened, just leaning against her door. When she stopped, I waited, hoping I’d hear it again.
Instead, I got a text asking where I was with the red curry and pad kee mao.
“Sorry,” I said when she opened the door. “I was enjoying the show.”
She glanced at the bow in her hand and shrugged. “Yeah, it is not where I want it yet. We’re not posting that one anytime soon,” she sighed.
Like a creepy dick, I Googled her last month. I didn’t know what compelled me to do it, but I was sitting in my office one afternoon, talking myself off the ledge from another futile argument with Shannon, and decided to look up Miss Desai. It was that, or start another filthy text conversation and I couldn’t walk around construction sites with an erection. Again. That was begging for trouble.
I expected to find her course syllabus, maybe a bio on the college website, and the standard social media fare.
I found a YouTube channel with two dozen clips, each boasting more than a half million hits. She played popular songs—Fall Out Boy, Tom Petty, Paramore, Muse, The Shins, Britney Spears, Hot Chelle
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