“I’m not sorry.”
“Didn’t ask you to be.”
We finally untangle, fumbling to straighten our clothes and ignore the fact that we just had very real, very intense sex in an elevator between floors.
And then it jolts.
We both freeze, holding onto each other as the metal box lurches downward, slowly grumbling back into service, waking up from the nap it shouldn’t have taken.
“Shit,” she mutters, grabbing for my arm. “Do I look like I just got railed?”
“Yes.”
poppy
. . .
One week after that…
The date wasn’t supposed to end that way.
It wasn’t supposed to end with him pounding into me, both of us coming in an elevator car, twenty something floors above the city, and now I’m more confused than ever.
My thighs have stopped aching. My heart?Not so much.
I stare at my phone, lying face-up on my duvet at the notification box that’s popped up on my screen and the tiny green dot glows next to Turner’s name. We never deleted one another on the dating app or unmatched becausewhy would we?
That would imply closure.
Or boundaries.
Oranylevel of maturity.
Instead, we’ve kept talking. Not every second of every day. But enough that I would feel empty if we weren’t. And despite the fact that I moved out of our shared house—moved out, like a grown-up trying to grow up—I still can’t stop checking my phone like a junkie for a fix. Still can’t stop thinking about that elevator.
He hasn't asked me out again. But he hasn’t stopped flirting either. Which means one of two things:
He’s waiting for me to make a move.
He wants to move on from me.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling of my stupid, dumb boring apartment bedroom.
What is this? WHAT ARE WE DOING?
We’re not dating. We’re not just roommates anymore either. We’ve crossed a line so thoroughly and so spectacularly that I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips when I shower.
And the worst part?
I want to do it again.
