He took me to an observatory and showed me Venus; you took me back to my room. When I unzipped your khaki pants and pulled them down over your bony hips I asked you if you thought he might like me. My lipstick stained your thighs, and I liked how warm you were down there, how soft your boxers felt when my face brushed against them, and how you smelled of salt and sweat and Dial soap. Still, I kept asking if you thought he might like me that way. I wouldn’t leave you alone about it, even taking little pauses even when you were so close I could taste it. I had to keep disturbing the peace, killing the mood, ruining the magic.
I guess so, you said. I couldn’t understand why you were so ambivalent, why you kept changing the subject, why you put your hand on the back of my head and pushed my face deeper into your lap, silencing me, reminding me. When I had finished, and you had gone away and come back again and we were lying close together (our skin all blue in the moonlight), I rested my head on your skinny chest and said I think I’ll call him tomorrow.
When you got up and left I was mad.