I grasp her wrists, hold them in the air, bring her closer to me. Her perfume is intimacy, a strong and clean scent that makes me want to make love to her again. “I’m not human,” I say. “I’m superhuman. You just happened to get lucky.”
“You got lucky.”
“I’m not arguing
there.”
“You love me.”
“Well,” I say, “duh.”
“Duh? That’s what
you have to say?” She in turn takes my wrists, tries to hold me down to the
bed. I let her. She brings her face close to mine, nestles her mouth close to
my ear.
Then she asks:
“Do you want to
fuck Tabitha?”
I blink so hard
that it feels as though boulders are being dropped onto my eyes. I breathe in
hard enough that it feels like razors are cutting my throat. Fact is, I’ve been
sleeping for a long time. Maybe even before Mom died. I’ve been walking through
life with my eyes open and very little else engaged.
“Um,” I say, “sure?”
Oh, Jesus.
I should know better, right?
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