Random (Going the Distance) by Lark O'Neal

in case I might have had sweat on me anywhere, then dash back into the bedroom. I have exactly one nice bra, thin lace and underwire that’s too scratchy for everyday. I put it on, and for a second I look at myself in the mirror. I’m not ready to get that hot and heavy with him, but maybe an older guy will expect that we’re going to have sex now that I invited him to my house?
    I stare at myself, wishing my boobs were bigger, that I had some kind of cleavage, but I don’t really. Even the underwire only gives me a little lift, but the white lace is nice against my tan, and I tug on a white v-neck shirt that doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard. My jean shorts are still fine and my legs are shaved, and I unbraid my hair, letting it free over my back and shoulders, and by the time I get this done there’s a knock on the door.
    Rushing toward the door, I stub my big toe on the leg of the couch. It feels like somebody smashed it with a hammer, and I yelp, hopping around in a circle. For a second I stand there blinking back tears, trying to get it together, and then swing the door open.
    He’s standing there, hands loose in his pockets, the three-day edging of beard on his chin catching the late afternoon light. I forget about my toe as all the molecules in my arms and legs and belly surge toward him, making the top of my head tingle, and I can’t think of anything to say. His expression is more serious than I’ve seen it before, and I’m suddenly wary, remembering that he’s way out of my league.
    “Hi,” I say, finally.
    “Hi.”
    We’re both just standing there, looking at each other. He looks at my clothes, or maybe my body and my bare legs, and I feel suddenly shy. Can he see the lace beneath the t-shirt?
    “Dude,” he says finally. “ You invited me .”
    The smile spreads over my face slowly, and I step back from the doorway. He pulls open the screen door and steps inside, his gaze going to the room behind me, and I glance at the pressed lace curtains, the plants and books on the shelves. “This is so different than it is outside,” he says.
    “It’s old, you know, but I like the walls.”
    “It’s really nice, Jess. Do you live here by yourself?”
    I nod, feeling awareness creep down my neck and shoulders as I think of my bed, just twelve steps into the other room. That’s not what I want, not yet, but maybe that’s why he’s here. Maybe he thinks I invite everybody over.
    “Do you want some tea?” The kitchen is the other direction from the bedroom, and it’s so tiny we’ll have to crowd around the table.
    “Sure.” Is that amusement in his voice?
    As I move toward the kitchen I realize that my toe is sticky and take a quick glance at it. Blood is covering it, pooling beneath it. “Crap,” I sigh. “Hold on.”
    Lifting up my toe, I penguin-walk on my heel to the kitchen, and get a rag from a drawer and run cold water into it, then bend over and wrap my foot in the cold compress. “Sorry,” I say, feeling a blush on my face. “I stub my toes all the freaking time.”
    “Such language.” He says ironically, and moves into the doorway, filling it up, and I realize his shoulders are very broad.
    “I can swear like a sailor, unfortunately. My mother really didn’t like it when people swore. She said it made them look ignorant.” I straighten, leaving my poor toe wrapped for a second. “It’s not very ladylike, is it?”
    “Do you want to be a lady?” His expression is hard to read, and I study it for a second, trying to decipher the slight turn of his lips, the brightness in his eyes. Should I be offended that he doesn’t think I’m a lady now?
    “I don’t know what I want to be.”
    “Are you in school?”
    Kneeling, I pull the rag away and find the toe has stopped bleeding. “No,” I answer, and feel the usual sting over it. I wish I could answer yes. “Give me a second. I’m going to get a Band-Aid.”
    He nods, and I limp into the bathroom, thinking this is