I can see her in my white sheets. Turning to watch her reflection. Letting her eyes close. Throwing her head back.
I need to see it. To watch her come all fucking night. To tie her to my bed so she's powerless to resist.
Ian: Why not?
Eve: It's kind of a lot. But I guess you are too.
Fuck, she's too funny.
Ian: Oh?
Eve: Oh is my thing. Don't take it. And don't play dumb. You know what I'm getting at.
Ian: Since when do you mince words?
Eve: Mm-hmm. I'm not going to stroke your ego like this. It will make your head too big.
Ian: My head?
Eve: See. It's already happening. Men are all the same. You think your dick size means something.
Ian: I brought it up?
Eve: No. But you're thinking about it.
Ian: I'm thinking about you stroking me.
Eve: Are you really?
Ian: Yes.
Eve: I liked that.
Ian: I know.
Eve: This isn't Star Wars. You're supposed to say something about how you liked it too.
Ian: I haven't heard an Original Trilogy reference in a while.
Eve: Addie likes it. She likes the over-the-top fantasy.
Ian: What do you like?
Eve: Crime dramas. The really horrible, gritty ones where everyone dies.
Ian: American?
Eve: Sometimes. Sometimes a Swedish show about serial killers. And sometimes a British drama. They have a certain charm. Everyone is so restrained. There's more subtext.
Ian: We're known for our stiff upper lip.
Eve: See. Bringing it back to stiff already.
Ian: Am I?
Eve: Yeah.
Ian: Are you sure you're not the one who's obsessed?
Eve: It's possible.
She's quiet for a moment. I'm not sure if I want her to ask about my life. Or my cock. I want everything from her.
I want too much from her.
Eve: You have a nice collection of movies.
Ian: Also true.
Eve: You have a favorite?
Ian: I don't watch a lot of films.
Eve: Still. You must have a favorite.
Ian: Weren't we talking about you stroking me?
Eve: We were.
Ian: Seems as if we're getting off track.
Eve: I watch more TV than film. Or read. But I do like quiet dramas. The ones based on plays.
Ian: I usually watch mysteries.
Eve: Now is when you say something about how you liked it too.
Ian: Was that not clear?
Eve: You have to remember I haven't done this before.
Ian: I couldn't tell.
Eve: Really?
Ian: The way you look at me, with all this curiosity in your eyes. It's the same way you look at me when I'm dressed.
Eve: Oh.
Ian: It drives me wild.
Eve: What else?
Ian: What else?
Eve: Drives you wild?
How hard should I push her here?
Ian: You have a sweet mouth, vixen. I can't wait to fuck it again.
Eve: Oh.
Ian: Oh?
Eve: Yeah. Sticking with oh.
Ian: I did like it. Very much. And I'd very much like to make you come all night. If you stay at my flat, I will.
Eve: I'll consider that.
Ian: Mysterious.
Eve: Am I taking your thing?
Ian: Yes, but I'm not complaining.
Eve: Generous. But I'm claiming "oh."
Ian: Good. I want to hear it on your lips again. As soon as possible.
She stays on my mind through research, another meeting, a trip to the gym, the ride up the lift.
My flat is silent. She isn't here, watching a depressing British drama or playing thrashing guitar music or reading on the couch.
She isn't here.
But her knickers are. The ones she was wearing last night.
The black thong is lying on my bed—on the smoothed but not made sheets—in the middle. Beneath a torn piece of paper.
Plans with Addie tonight. And tomorrow. Next time, I'll stay. I'll make a mess of your kitchen and everything.
Think of me tonight. I'll think of you.
- Eve
She is teasing me. She's driving me out of my fucking mind.
I fix dinner. Shower. Try to focus on a new TV show.
The crime drama is supposed to be the most exciting, thought-provoking thing to grace the small screen all decade.
The dialogue is sharp; the characters are vibrant; the world is clear and moody.
But it fails to hold my attention. My thoughts keep slipping back to her smile, her laugh, her groan.
All the curiosity in her grey-green eyes.
She owns my thoughts until I prepare for bed. Put away my cell. See a text from her. A picture.
From this morning.
Her in the bed—my bed—in the lingerie I left for her. A sheer lace bodysuit with a delicate floral print. All of her, from her head to her toes.
I give up on thought.
On reason.
On anything besides fucking myself to her picture.
And sending one in return.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eve
Original Sin
Friday, June 20th
Nine p.m.
Dear Diary,
I like a boy. Does he like me? Let me find a daisy and count the petals. He likes me. He likes me not. He likes me. He likes me not.
Can you imagine?
I suppose I shouldn't make fun of infatuation. That's denial, plain and simple. And, really, it's more internalized misogyny. We make fun of women who count petals on a flower.
What about the men? Is it always women, waiting, wondering, begging men to love them back?
That's silly.
I'm not mocking this girl. Even if she's an idea, not an actual human being.
I am holding up a mirror, laughing at the difference in our experiences.
There are no petals in this story. Unless you count the ones that make up my "virtue." Or whatever antiquated term you want to use.
There's no field of daisies.
No beautiful day in the park, with the bright blue sky, and the world full of possibilities.
Only there is.
Sure, I'm not lying in the grass, counting petals. Sure, I'm in my apartment, in only a tank top and panties, sweating my ass off despite the ice water on my desk.
Sure, I'm not a blond in a pastel dress.
But I'm sitting here, trying to spin my thoughts together, failing to quiet that voice asking: Does he like me?
No, I know he likes me, but does he like me?
Here I am. An ordinary girl. Twirling my hair around my fingers. Planning my next trip to Sephora. Wondering what I'm going to wear when my sister and I go out for ice cream.
Thinking about the boy I like.
Only he's not a boy.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is all man. He's twice my age. Old enough to be my father. With an entire history. An entire life lived before I learned his name.
A life I want to know.
It's not like with the cute boy from my chemistry class. It's not like with the bassist with the cold hands. Or the guy I kissed at my best friend's party.
It's not a crush.
It's deeper, stronger, infinitely more painful.
He's my new favorite book.
I want to pry apart his pages, underline his explanations, dive into every ounce of his meaning.
Does the metaphor make sense?
Am I really using this space to talk about a boy?
But then he's not a boy.