22 comments/ 20067 views/ 68 favorites Midnight Lunch By: robinwatergrove The mall food court is dead by nine. Everyone still at the mall is in a store shopping, or trying to look like they're shopping. The teenagers are biding their time until the security guard asks them to leave. I'm in the food court because I don't have anywhere to be, and I definitely don't have anything to buy. I'm sitting in a booth with my phone out. The screen is off and I'm watching girls from under the brim of my hat. There's a beautiful black girl with natural hair that works at Subway, and a cute girl with crooked teeth at Orange Julius. The only girls worth checking out at the mall are the ones working here. I want a 20-something like me. Someone who's out of college and used to the idea of being into girls. I'm done with the giggly, squeamish ones. I want a girl who wants to fuck. Truthfully, I can get a quarter of what I want just by staring at a girl. Because sex isn't about orgasms. I don't know why everyone thinks that. I don't really care about orgasms. If you want to come hard, do it at home, alone, with your fingers. People talk about "wanting to get off" but if someone's looking for a hook up, it's not because they want to come. People go looking for sex because they want sex. And what the fuck is sex? This fragile, violent thing. So obvious in our heads, so ambiguous in reality. Full of vulnerable highs and anxious lows. Why would anyone ever want that? What is the point of sex outside relationships? If it's not to strengthen some bond, to trust, to share, to love. If it's just to get off, then it's just a few defenseless hours wrapped up in another person's arms. A dangerous surrender, with little gained. It's all the hope and fear, the 'how is this possible' head shaking, of connecting with another person, that goes out like a match as soon as you stop. Sex alone doesn't lead to anything. Except maybe more sex, if it's good. Because sex doesn't require presence. At its best, it's an out of body experience where pleasure is driving and you're just along for the ride. So why would anyone ever, ever, ever want a hook up? I don't know. But I want one. It's like I think it'll be shiny and new this time, not awkward and difficult to steer, like it always is. I feel the want behind my ribs as I stare at this girl from across the food court. A pretty brunette with skinny legs that knock together at the knee. She's sweeping the floor. When she turns my way, our eyes meet. She flinches away. No one ever stares back like I stare at them. I'll be thinking about one of these food court girls next time I come. With my fingers. Alone. At home. I put Tinder on my phone as a concession. I acknowledged that I wanted sex, and that's it. I haven't opened the app. I see it on my home screen and it feels like the urge to drive off the side of the bridge. Just some passing, weird thought. Don't look too closely. I leave the food court before they have to kick me out, and walk to work. It's three lit blocks, two dark ones, a quick cut through a drug store, then a half-block-long jaywalk to get to my Mini Mart. I shove my hat and jacket in my bag and drop it in the back. Now I look like every other badly uniformed Mini Mart employee. Red shirt, black pants, black shoes, and a name tag. Personality-free and ready to serve. This is only my third night shift, so I'm still on probation. My boss, Parteek, makes me show him how I unlock and lock the register, how to read the delivery schedule, and the how to check IDs. Then he leaves me on my own until six in the morning. My body is already getting used to the hours. I feel more awake when the sun sets, and tired when I watch it rise. It's hard to be nocturnal. You have to make the leap all at once and not look back. I did it by staying up for forty-eight hours, then crashing as the sun came up. Most people who come into the store look like they're caught in between. They're not tired enough to sleep, not awake enough to work. They're just up at one in the morning for whatever reason, staring at the single-serve cereal bowls. I'm all instinct when a sleepy girl walks in. Seeing girls sleepy is half a step from seeing them in bed. Loose hair, loose clothes. Tired eyes and quiet faces. I'm always fantasizing about wrapping them up in my sweatshirt. We'd lay right down on the tile. It's clean; I just mopped it. We'll just rest, all body heat and slow breathing. Take a nap like stacked spoons. I'll tell them, 'You need to rest. I'll keep you safe while your eyes are closed.' In between the customers, the window shoppers, the shoplifters, and the sleepy girls who need a nap, I'm alone. I sit behind the counter, which faces the front doors, and look out at the sidewalk. Watching people through the glass feels like watching fish in an aquarium. They're in front of me, but separate. They're the busy ones and I'm the one who's just sitting here, watching. They couldn't possibly be watching me back. In the quiet hours, between two and five in the morning, I'm truly alone. The sidewalk is empty and when there's a pause between songs on the radio, I can't hear anything but the whoosh of the air conditioning. I walk around the store like I'm in an indie film. I pretend the world is black and white and full of jokes. I pretend this is poetic simplicity, not a waste of time for shit money. But it's hard to pretend when the radio just plays top 40 and there's no one around to laugh with me. Parteek calls me during the quiet hours. He's paranoid because the last guy working graveyard kept falling asleep. I pick up on the first ring and try to sound wide awake. But voices are difficult things to control. I can cover up the boredom but I can still hear that lonely note under my words. The sound a body makes when it hasn't seen another body in hours. ————— On the fifth day, I pass the quiet hours decorating a soda cup. I write, "Tips are like hugs without all the touching," on the side and set it by the register. It's like I'm working at an artsy coffee shop, without the irony. By the seventh day, I'm recognizing the clockwork regulars. The ones who come every night. The slightly less tired ones. The people buying coffee. They're working late like me. I'm just another step in their routine. Then there are the irregular regulars. The ones who keep coming around but always seem surprised to find themselves back in this overly bright Mini Mart way past midnight again. The college kids who never take out their headphones, like they can't get mugged. The guy with the leather jacket who always asks me to break a five or ten into quarters, and never buys anything. The girls with black-rimmed eyes hanging out with tall guys who think I'll sell them beer without an ID. A chubby girl comes in with one of these guys. I'm sure I've seen this guy before. I might have even rejected his fake ID before. They walk straight to the liquor and he pulls out a bottle of wine. Weird choice. As they walk up to the counter, I see the white-and-pink print on the front of her shirt that reads, "Bi Bitch!" My eyes snap to her face. She's staring at the floor. He puts the wine on the counter; I ask for ID. He produces the same bullshit ID he gave me last time. Parteek wants me to confiscate all the fake ones and give them to the cops. I was willing to let this kid slide the first time but this is ridiculous. I take the wine off the counter because I hate having to clean up broken glass. He starts talking all the sudden, "Hey, what's the problem? What are you doing? Come on..." The girl's watching me silently. I use a pair of steel scissors that must have been around since the 70s to snip the license in half. He grabs for the ID and I step back, out of arm's reach. I hold the two halves of thin plastic between my fingers and say, "Don't ever come back in here." He stares at me, trapped between anger and fear, and I stare back. I'll win, because I don't pick fights I can't win. This isn't the kind of kid who carries a weapon. He's all talk. Confidence is making a judgement and acting on it. I throw the pieces of his ID past him, onto the floor by the door. He turns, cursing at me as he leaves. He's too proud to pick up the pieces on his way out. She's right on his heels but I hope she hears me say, "The fuck are you doing with that guy, huh?" The doors swing shut behind them and I see my reflection in the glass. My hair is short and messy, shadowing my face and shining in the fluorescent light. My friends say it looks more gay at night. I agree. I think my facial expression gets harder at night too. There's something else there—I can barely make it out in my blurry reflection—that's almost apologetic. It says, 'Yeah. I'm thinking about fucking you. Sorry.' I'm undressing you in my head. Sorry about that. If it's any consolation, I think you're beautiful. I love all your stretch marks and I'll kiss them from one end to the other. I love your dry elbows and the way your inner labia flare outside the outer like a flower. I'll make them bloom with my tongue. There's an endless parade of older guys, coming and going. They rarely speak to me. They look tired in that long-game kind of way. Not like they haven't slept in a while, but like they've maybe never slept, like they're never going to. I say, "Have a good night," and sometimes, "Be safe out there." A woman in worn out pajama pants comes in. She looks hungover and sad. I sell her a pack of cigarettes and two gallons worth of milk in pint-sized containers. I say, "Be safe out there," and she walks out without a word. They say working a service job makes you hate people. You'd think the night shift would be ten times worse—and maybe I'm just lucky—but it's making me softer, not harder. I feel like everyone's mom. Even the loud, drunk people who shoplift don't give me any shit. They stumble in and stumble out, the way drunk people usually keep to themselves on the last train of the night. You'd think Parteek would stress about the shoplifting, but something must have happened once, because he says over and over, "Just let them go. Do you understand? You don't ever call out to them, or ask them what they're doing, or fight with them, or approach them. Just let them go. If they threaten you, hit the panic button. Otherwise, just let them go, then call the police, then call me." Right before he left me alone on my first night he stopped me again, "Do you understand what I said? Don't ever go after the shoplifters." I said, "Yes. I understand." An old black butch comes in. Her hair is buzzed, just starting to go grey, with a pair of sunglasses resting on top. She's built short and stocky and her sweatshirt hides the curve between her breasts and her stomach. She walks with her weight heavy in each foot, like her knees are bothering her. She nods at me and I nod back. I think of the first woman I knew who left the hair on her chin alone. She called me a baby butch and said, "We take care of our own." I felt out of place, like I'd never be recognized as a part of that club by any other member. But time is slowly proving me wrong. I feel like gay women are the only people who don't care about where I work or what I do or where my degree is from. They see something in me that they see in themselves and we reach for each other like a reflex. That's family. My mom won't ask me about anything in my life except, "How's school going?" I say, "It's going." I take one class a week in the summer just so I have something to say to her. The butch pours herself a cup of coffee and adds two little cups of Hazelnut Vanilla cream. She pays the $1.50 with a twenty dollar bill. I hand her back $18.50 and she drops it in my tip cup. She says, "Make sure you get enough sleep, baby." I smile broadly, unafraid of being misread. I say, "Thank you. I'll spend it on college." She laughs with a smoker's cough and says, "Buy yourself a dozen coffees." I take the money out of the tip cup when she leaves, and put it in my back pocket. I put it in the left pocket, where I keep my phone, not the right, where I keep my wallet. I don't want to spend her money on something stupid. ————— On the day I stop counting the number of days I've been working the night shift, I decide to rearrange the cigarettes behind the counter. The case is a mess because no one who works during the day wants to take out all the packs to stock a new carton in the back. I open the glass door and start pulling out the plastic-wrapped cartons. I reach for an awkwardly shaped one that's supposed to double as a display and feel a sharp cardboard edge slide across my palm. It doesn't hurt, but when I pull the carton out, I see my hand is bleeding. I leave the case open and wash my hand in the bathroom. There's a clean slice down the side of my palm. I walk back into the store and head to the first-aid section, next to the roadmaps and magazines. My head is bowed, surveying the band aid options, when she walks in. I see her pale hair first. It glows under the lights, like it's brighter than the white floor and the white walls and the white ceiling. She reflects the light back up at itself. Her head drifts on an even level; it doesn't bob with each step. She moves with a dancer's skill for illusion, the way they skate across the stage. I'm staring. Her hair looks whiter than bleach, but her tan complexion makes me think her hair is naturally black. She's so beautiful. She looks at me and I flinch. I blindly grab a box from the shelf and stride back to my post at the register. I bandage my hand and watch her walk the aisles. She's wearing a knee length skirt and Converse. Her white-gold hair falls over the shoulders of a big black sweatshirt that's unzipped in the front. She looks small under all that cloth but I can't be sure. The way her hips swing when she walks makes think she's got nice curves. I watch her pick up a container of Tic-tacs and put them in the pocket of her sweatshirt. I am completely unfazed. This turn of events does not surprise me. Go ahead, beautiful shoplifter, I won't stop you. I watch her drift around the store, picking things up and setting them down. She never looks up at me. I watch her put a box of tampons in her pocket, then a packaged danish, then a keychain decoration shaped like a Maneki-neko, those waving cats in Asian restaurants. Only then does she look up at me. I stare back. She has dark eyebrows and dark eyes. She looks so awake I can't imagine her next to me on the floor. I smile at her, feeling flustered. She's too lovely; her gaze is too steady. She walks up to me and slowly takes everything out of her pockets. She dumps it on the counter in fistfuls. The Tic-tacs are there, along with the tampons, the danish, the keychain, and about half a dozen crumpled receipts, a tiny hairbrush, a dollar bill, and some change. She swipes the receipts and such off, and back in her pockets. I'm grinning at her, stupidly, like this is some kind of crazy performance, but she doesn't smile back. I ring up her purchases slowly while my eyes crawl over her body, looking for some sign, some kind of flashing signal or tiny rainbow. She pays with cash. I touch her hand when I give her the change. I say, "Be safe out there." She says, "Thanks," over her shoulder as she leaves. I feel like my ribs are stretched beyond the door. I think I just missed my chance. My panicky heart tells me to run after her, to at least get her name, but I stay put. The store is still and stifling. The radio has turned itself off again and the silence berates me. I walk my heavy stomach to the back room and restart the radio. I think the lights are drying out my skin. They're too bright. I stand behind the counter in a fog. Now that she's gone, I call up her memory and join her in a daydream. I undress her. The hoodie falls right off her shoulders and onto the floor. She's curvy alright. Thin tank top, two bras, full breasts. Her skin is a pale brown; I think she's Latina. It's darker around her wrists and elbows. I take off her tank top with both hands. No tattoos that I can see. No piercings. Not on a girl like this. She's perfect, not the kind of girl you can puncture. I daydream and my hand bleeds. I put another band aid on top of the first one. By the end of my shift I've Scotch-taped gauze over the whole mess and still, there's red leaching through. I put a five dollar bill from my wallet in the register for the band aids and gauze. Parteek sends me home as soon as he arrives, about half an hour before my shift ends. My hand looks a lot worse than it is, covered with three layers of red and brown bandages. When I get home, I shower with my hand resting on the glass door, up and out of the water's spray. I clean it in my sink, careful not to break open the skin. Paper cuts are the worst because they have to scab all the way up inside the slice. It takes forever for that deeper stuff to heal. I dream of her in my sheets. I keep calling up her face, so I'll remember it. But it's an uneven landscape. Her eyebrows are crystal clear, but I didn't see her ears. I try to focus in on that blurry part and know I'm just seeing whatever my mind wants to put there. There's no memory to draw on. It doesn't really matter though, what her ears look like, when what I want to know is how they feel against my lips. But just for a hook up—something sour in my throat reminds me—just for the night. Just sex. Just once. ————— The next day I'm tired like the first day I worked the night shift. My body doesn't believe me; we should still be asleep. I get dressed and eat breakfast in the dark, so I won't bother my roommates. With every step, I feel like I'm stumbling off-balance, like my brain is stubbornly refusing to wake up my inner ear for this shit. The old butch comes around again. I think her schedule is four days on, three days off. She buys a medium coffee, I charge her for a small, and she tips me too much. I tell her it's all going into savings and she laughs. I fold her bills up and slide them into my phone pocket. I really am saving it all, nearly $150 now. The beautiful girl came in around 2 am last time. I'm biding my time, counting the minutes I need to pass before I can start watching the door. My eyes are on the clock when she comes in. I see her, forget the time with my relief, and look up at the clock again. 11:23 pm. Whatever the opposite of a 'my heart stopped' is, that's what it feels like. The inside of me pops larger than my skin for a second. I don't know if I truly wasn't expecting her to show up again, or if I'm flimsy and so easily tied to beautiful, new things. I can't look at her while I'm losing my cool. By the time I get my eyes off the counter, she's looking at the packaged hardboiled eggs in the refrigerators. She stays longer this time and I spend every second trying to think of something to say to her. I slip between tongue-tied with attraction and distracted by the sight of her. She has on a tight jacket today. Her arms are thinner than I thought, but her hips are just as round as my lust-swamped mind imagined. The zipper is pulled down to her navel, so the edges of the jacket flare around her breasts. When she walks up the chip aisle, I can see her nipples through her shirt. She's not wearing a bra. I feel the first real lick of arousal race through me. It's dangerously strong. Oh my god, her breasts look that good with no bra? How can that be? I stare at her chest. They're so full, stretching delicious tension lines into her shirt at their fullest. Her nipples are big and pointed slightly away from each other. My body tears from interested to ravenously horny. She's walking toward me and I still haven't thought of anything to say. I'm thinking about jumping the counter and meeting her halfway, my hands scooping inside her jacket, under the curve of her breasts, so I can run my thumbs over both nipples when I kiss her. Midnight Lunch My mind rolls over in its haze. I have to say something. But even with my mouth closed, I imagine the way my eyes follow her around the store is probably making the point for me. She sets a pack of Juicyfruit on the counter. I say, "How's your night going?" She looks up at me, "Pretty good. You?" I shrug, like now I'm cool to the touch, "Dunno. It's just getting started." She nods. My mind is reeling itself back together. I come up with something better, "You working the night shift too?" She says, "No. How much for the gum?" "Ninety-nine cents." She puts a dollar bill on the counter and walks away. The door swings shut behind her and I see my face in the glass, apologizing. Is that a hard no? Or a soft no? Is that 'don't talk to me' or 'I hate small talk'? I brood myself into a bad mood and scowl at people through the doors. ————— I promise myself to leave her alone. She no-shows the next day and I think, one more try. Last time. If she comes around again, I'll just try one more time and then I'll let it go. She comes in just before 2 am. I catch her eye and nod. She smiles back. It's small and polite but if I'm only giving myself one more chance, it's enough. I walk out from behind the counter and scoop up a half-full box of chip bags from the floor. Time to stock the shelves. I kneel in front of the chips and start tucking loud, crinkly bags into the back of each row. I feel her wandering around. I'm positive she's watching me, but that could just be my own hyper-awareness clouding my senses. She turns down my aisle and sidesteps along, facing the candy bars. I can sense her behind me like static electricity. Lust says, turn around and find out how good she smells, but my mind, where I take myself and my limits seriously, says, you have one chance. Don't fuck it up. I let her pass, then glance at her back as she walks away. My eyes return to the chip bags just as she says, "I love your hair," without turning around. I look up and she looks back. I hold her eyes because the only time you can really hold someone's gaze is the pause before you speak. I say, "Thanks." She smiles and disappears around the end cap. I say, "I like yours too." She leans back into view, "Thanks!" I stand up, trying to look casual, hoping I don't spook her, "How do you keep it so bright but still so soft?" Most girls with bleached hair have brittle tips. Hers looks like pulled cotton. She laughs, "Honey and egg yolks." I smile and bite my lip, bolder now, "I'll give you a discount." She takes a step closer. Her head tips just enough to let me know she knows. We're flirting. More accurately, I'm flirting and she's letting me. She crosses her arms, which lifts her breasts. I hold her eyes, unblinking. "On what? Little squeeze jars of honey? I'd go through one a day." "I'll sell you a case." She just nods at me with her eyebrows raised. I drop the cloak of flirting and ask an honest question. One chance to show her I'm serious, to find out her name. I say, "So if you're not working, what are you doing up so late?" Her eyes are so dark I can't tell if she's offended or interested. She looks back at me like she isn't going to respond, then says, "I am working. I'm a Minor Decoy." I blink. I know the phrase, but it's so far from what I was expecting her to say that I can't remember what it means. Minor decoy, minor decoy... My mind snaps into focus. They work for the cops. Kids under 21 who try to buy alcohol with fake IDs to bust lazy cashiers and shady bars. She shrugs without a word. I say, "Really?" She says, "No." We stare at each other. I don't understand this person. Lack of comprehension floods me. Not confusion, because I'm not trying to make sense of it, just blank whiteness with no meaning. I don't understand her at all. I say, "So are you actually under 21?" She says, "No," and smiles. A real smile. An amused one, like she's happy here, with me. Like I made her smile with my fumbling, my blank white questions. I smile back. A real smile. I show too much. I let her see I'm happy here too. With her. Happy to be the gullible bird who swallows every plastic fish. Tell me another one; I'll believe anything you say. She backs toward the door and says, "Have a good night." I say, "You too. See you to... later." I nearly say 'tomorrow,' remember that's my day off, can't remember what day of the week it is, decide it would be weird to say 'see you Friday,' like we have some kind of date, or 'see you two days from now,' and finish lamely, way too late. At the end of my shift I think about asking Parteek if I can work tomorrow anyway. I feel like I'm right at the tipping point of befriending her and don't want to miss my chance. What if she thinks I quit, or stopped working graveyard? People have days off, I tell myself. I try to turn down the volume on my worrying as I head across town to meet Georgia for breakfast. My friends' schedules overlap mine around the edges. We eat at a diner in her neighborhood with light green linoleum floor tiles that match the light green booth upholstery. I chew on a bagel with cream cheese and listen to her talk about the record shop. It's a summer job, like mine, but lately she's been talking like the record shop is her top priority. I ask her if she has her fall classes picked out and she puts her spoon in her coffee. She starts stirring before she's added any milk or sugar. She stirs and says, "I think I'm going to take a semester off." I say, "We only have two left." "I know," she gives me a hard look, "Obviously." I shake my head, "What are you going to do? Work at the record shop?" She sighs and I can't shake the night-shift mother in me. I flip my hands over on the table, palms up. She says, "Yes. That's what I want." She nods, "That's what I want to do right now." "And what about tomorrow?" I push her again. "Look," she holds up her hand to stop me, "What does a degree get you? Go ahead and finish. I bet you still won't have any idea what you want." "I want a degree," I counter. "And then what?" "Then I'll take it from there." "That's what I'm doing. I'm 'taking it' from right here. Why wait?" "Because you're like, this far off the ground," I hold my hand flat, a few inches over the table, "The only options you have are the ones right under you." "You and your metaphors," she shakes her head. She looks amused but the tight line of her mouth is defensive. "Here's one for you. If we all have to climb our way from where we are to where we want to be, I might as well start climbing now." "You'll reach the first ledge and wish you had anchored a line first." I leave Georgia and her record shop dreams. I go home and try to sleep but I keep replaying my clumsy goodbye to the beautiful girl with the bleached hair. When I wake up, the sun has already set. I eat breakfast on the floor with my phone in my lap and my cereal bowl balanced between my feet. My roommates are still up, but I keep to myself. Talking to them right before they go to sleep isn't a great way to start my day. I put on a jacket, even though the day's heat hasn't fully faded. The train gets me to the movie theatre at 8:50 pm and Lenny is already at the door with tickets. We watch some grey-and-blue-washed action movie and I daydream like I'm still asleep. In this dream, she's on her back on my couch and we're home alone. I push up her skirt and kiss her thighs. I look at my short fingernails on her skin and pause. I think, I'm just a gullible clerk at a Mini Mart. She's this beautiful girl, this apparition, who lies like it's nothing. She floats in and out of this store I'm chained to, she wafts, she glides, she— One night wouldn't be nearly enough time to do everything I want to do for her. ————— I get to work early on Friday. I throw away my food-court-dinner food wrappers in the back and tuck my shirt in as I walk to the front. Parteek tells me he wants to sell more fruit. I say that's a great idea. He asks, "But would they buy it?" "I would buy it. I would buy all of it. I'd go through like five, six bananas a night," I say. He laughs, "Okay, okay." She shows up twenty minutes past two in the morning. I walk out from behind the counter, "So what do you really do?" She calls back without looking at me, "I take care of a baby." "No," I shake my head, "I know that type. You don't have the bags under your eyes for that." She says, as if in reply, "I take care of my grandmother. She just had surgery and she needs my help." "Really?" "No," she looks at me, "I told you I was working." "So tell me." She shakes her head, "It's not that cool." That one snags on something personal. I walk up to her. "So what? Is this cool? I work at a Mini Mart. Come on." She laughs. I lean against the shelves. I'm torn between asking her name and asking, "So..." I scratch my nose, stalling, "We should hang out." It doesn't come out like a question because I don't know what to ask. Do you want? Would you? Can you give me a chance? I expect her to laugh. At me. Or the graceless come on. Or the stupidity of making plans at a Mini Mart at midnight. But she looks startled. Her eyes are wide and unsure. She says, "When?" I smile crookedly, trying to put her at ease, "Well you're 'working,' so when's your lunch break?" She says, "When's yours?" "I don't have one," I shrug. "The boss is a cheapskate. There's no one to watch the counter for me. Upside is, I can eat anything in the store for free." She laughs and I want to kiss her. She says, "My break is right now." "Oh!" I turn away from her and toward the fridges, camouflaging the flush of excitement in my stomach, "Then let's get you something to eat. On the house." She walks around the store with me, carrying everything I hand her. Cheese and crackers, yogurt, chocolate milk, eat-out-of-the-can noodle soup, and a can of Orange Crush. I lead her out the front doors and we sit on the curb. I'm breaking every single one of Parteek's rules. Her hair glows like a cloud in the light coming out the door. Her face is even more beautiful with the streetlight shadows shading it. She eats and I tell her Mini Mart horror stories. About half are made up, a handful I heard from the guy who trained me, and the rest are true. I don't think she believes a single one. She has this soft "mmhmm" sound she uses to say "keep going" or "I'm listening" without tipping her hand, showing me if she thinks I'm any good or worth her time. She laughs when I tell her about the woman who paid for a dozen eggs with pennies—that's a true one—and my body tips toward her. I want to be closer but I don't know how. It feels like she just lets me see a sliver of herself at a time. I'm halfway through a story about a fortune teller who wanted to pay for her Snickers by reading my future—that one's made up, I just wanted an excuse to touch her palm—when the old butch walks up. I stand up the second I see her, but she waves me down. "Stay there baby," she says as she lurches up onto the curb, one hand on her knee for leverage, "I'll leave your money on the counter." I thank her and sit down again. I hold out my hand to finish the fortune teller story and the beautiful girl puts her hand in mine. "Hey," I say, "What's your name?" "Maria." I point to my name tag, "I'm Jean. But my friends call me Naej." The old butch comes out with her coffee. She waves and I wave back. I say, "It's like Jean, but backwards." Maria says, "Mmhmm." I shake my head, my face still serious, "I'm just kidding. My friends call me G." "I can't tell when you're serious." "Same to you. Are you coming back tomorrow?" She nods. I kiss her. No slow lean in, no feeling her out. No breathing close with our noses touching. I just tilt my head and swoop in. I catch her lips and press them full and flush with my own. So tough when I'm staring at a distance, so soft up close. It feels like I'm sharing my secret with a stranger. I'm soft inside, just like you, and I want sex. I don't know why. I want to fuck you. Gently, like I know you inside and out and have nothing to prove. I want to fuck with you. Not, I want to fuck you up, or mess with your trust, I want both of us to fuck. I don't want to do it to you; I want to do it with you. Slip from the sidewalk curb to unbelievable pleasure together. I whimper, vulnerable against Maria's lips. Then I kiss her properly, but in reverse. First, I kiss her. Then, I pull back just far enough for our lips to brush. I touch her nose with mine and breathe in. I lean back to see her lips, then look up into her eyes. I mumble, light-headed with a thick tongue, "If you don't want to do that, we don't have to. We can just have midnight lunch and hang." Maria looks down at my mouth and says, "Tomorrow. 2 am. Make me something special." I nod and she leaves. I throw away our wrappers. No one drank the can of Orange Crush so I put it back in the fridge. I ring up our food in the register, take $11.24 out of my wallet, and put it in the till. ————— Maria comes through the doors at 2 am sharp. She has on the same skirt she was wearing the first time I saw her, a green t-shirt, and no bra. The points of her nipples pull it into a loose tent. The sides bulge when she walks and her breasts sway into the fabric. I say, "I have something special for you." She raises her eyebrows. "A fresh omelet!" I wave my hands dramatically. "Wow," she nods, "Okay. I'm ready to be impressed." I lead her over to the microwave by the soda fountain, where I have my ingredients prepared. I crack three fresh eggs into a soda cup, chop up the basil, mozzarella, and tomatoes I got from a packaged Caprese salad in the fridge, and pour it all into a shallow, plastic lid I swiped from a microwavable pasta dinner. I put the lid in the microwave and set it to 30 seconds. The bread from the sandwich isn't too soggy, so I set it cut-side down on top of the heat lamp that warms the hot dogs. Maria watches me flip the omelet with the help of a paper plate and microwave it for another 30 seconds. I flip it and microwave it twice more, to be sure it's cooked through. Then I pull the bread off the lamp with a napkin. I swipe a Hershey's bar from the candy shelf, peel back the wrapper, and run a plastic knife along the thin edge to make chocolate shavings. Maria 'ooh's as they land on the hot bread and melt. I laugh, nervous and bashful, my feelings on display. Part of fucking a girl right is being willing to work in front of her. You have to be willing to really do something, to really concentrate and care that it comes out right. You have to do it right in front of her and show her you're not afraid. You have to show her you can pay attention to the details. You have to show her you will make her the best microwave omelet in the world, with the most delicious chocolate toast. You will make something from nothing and with those same thin hands and ready mouth, you will lift her up and lay her out. You will listen. You will be patient. You will surprise her. You will make her come. I set her up on the sidewalk with a plastic knife and fork, a shitload of napkins, a handful of single-serve packets of salt and pepper from the food court, and a carton of milk. She eats her breakfast. I watch her with my head in my hand. She tells me she's never had an omelet this good and I swat my hand like she's flattering me. But I believe her. No one makes omelets as good as mine, not even on a stove. She finishes eating and needles me about when and where I'm going to culinary school. I make it through ten minutes of flirtatious small talk before I kiss her again. To call it a kiss is to place the emphasis too strongly on one star in a constellation. It's incredible on its own, sure, but the amazement comes from seeing every spark of light all at once, as a whole. Her mouth is wonderful, but it's the closeness that's so erotic. I lean into her, so my leg is pressed to hers, her breast is against my chest. I nuzzle into her neck, press my face to her hair. I lose myself in sensation, no longer a person, just a bale of oversensitive nerves. I kiss her for my own pleasure and feel her sigh. She leaves her lips resting slightly apart when I pull away, like an invitation to come back. The sidewalk felt dangerous when we were just sitting on it. Now we're making out in public, in the middle of the city, well after midnight. The danger swells in my chest; there are bigger things to worry about than the store getting robbed when I'm not looking. I pull Maria up and she follows me back into the store without a word. I lead her to the backroom and leave the door ajar. It's a narrow, rectangular space, with a waist-height counter along one short edge, boxes along both of the long walls, and a cluster of overloaded coat hooks on the other short wall. She's watching me with dark eyes, looking sleepier now than I've ever seen her. I kiss her softly and she curls her shoulders toward me. She puts one of my hands on her breast and I moan into her mouth. I'm half-listening for the bell on the front door and half-ready to fuck the night shift and take her home. Just three weeks into this job and I'm going to lose it. Maria puts her hand flat on my chest and I pull back. She looks at my face, up at my hair, down at my lips, then at her own hand on my shirt. She doesn't say anything. I'm looking at her, stricken by how lovely she is, but cautious. I'm not sure what's going on, if she wants to stop or if she just wants to look at me. It feels strange for us both to be standing. I want her to rest, to relax, to feel like she has time and space, to know we're in no rush, but i don't know how to say that, or suggest that we move. So I just pick her up, as quickly and non-sexually as I can, and set her on the counter, next to the phone and the radio. I smooth her skirt down and stand in the V of her legs, looking up at her. Maria smiles and takes my head in both of her hands. She asks, "Do you bring a lot of girls back here?" I shake my head, "Just you. But I mean," I exaggerate a shrug, "I did just start working here. There's still time." She snorts. She strokes her fingers through my hair; I close my eyes. It feels incredible, like I have never been touched like this before. I don't feel her moving closer so I startle when she kisses me. My heart is still nervous and tight in my chest. I feel like I'm always on the verge of losing her when I look away, afraid object permanence doesn't apply to lovely white-haired ghosts. She keeps her hands behind my head and kisses me. She opens my lips with her own and touches our tongues together. No suggestive twist or reach. She just touches the inside of me with the inside of her, pulls back, and does it again. I put my hands on her ass and pull her forward on the counter. She wraps her legs around my hips and pulls me closer still. It's an embrace with no momentum. I hold her and that's it. We kiss in slow motion. I'm not taking her clothes off. I'm careful not to push up her skirt. I just snuggle into her and kiss her neck, kiss her chin. Her hair feels as soft as it looks. I hold her and it feels like it matters. Like I'm holding her on the edge of a long drop, or holding her heat in when it's too cold outside, holding her coat on when the wind's trying to take it off. I let her kiss me harder than I kiss her back. The longer we touch, the more I feel her tender spots, rising to the surface, making themselves known. Like everyone who lies playfully, she has a lot to lose. I can see it in her eyes. She's breakable. She knows it, and now I know it too. She lets me grab her hips, but she shivers when I touch her ears. Those quiet eyes aren't apathetic, just careful what they let you see. Midnight Lunch I say I want sex, but when I'm nose-to-nose with a beautiful girl and I think I can see her needs through her skin, I want whatever she wants. She touches my lips and I tell her how beautiful she is. I tell her she's an apparition in this city. I steal lines from my own fantasies and whisper them into the skin behind her ear. We slow and slow. Moving slower than I thought two people could touch. Slower than sleep. So slow it takes concentration. So slow it's not erotic. It's something else. It's erotic to kiss a girl on the sidewalk. But to stand with her—even with the warmth of her pussy radiating through my shirt to my stomach—wrapped up in my arms, with her legs around my waist, my fingers in her hair, it's not. The black-eyed hunger of lust is gone; this is too tender for selfishness. Now I'm just taking care of a girl. That's kind of a hook up, I reason; I don't know her at all and I'm still giving her everything. At least it's got the emotional recklessness of a hook up. The slower we move, the more she melts. She rolls her hips, pushing her crotch against me, and I kiss the flush on her face. One cheek, then the other. She stays for half an hour past when she said she had to go. When I finally help her off the counter, neither one of us says much. She tells me she'll come again and I kiss the back of her neck. She walks backward to the door and says she wants another omelet. I nod at her, ruffled and wet, grinning shaky like we just fucked for ninety minutes instead of snuggled. I tame my hair in the glass doors' reflection and put enough money in the register to cover the food I made for her. The old butch comes in. I accidentally beam at her, teeth showing and everything. She laughs, "You having a good night?" "Yeah," I try to wipe my grin off on my sleeve. "Your girlfriend come around again?" "Yeah." I blush at the counter. The title doesn't faze me. It barely registers. It's the warmth in my face and my stomach that's overwhelming. Or better said, unexpected. Just from hearing her say, "your girlfriend." My girlfriend. She carries her coffee to the counter and hands me a twenty. I hand her the change and she hands it right back. The same exchange every night. She says, "Buy something nice for your girl." I nod, still smiling, "I will." I've been thinking about it since I got home yesterday, right after our first kiss. I want to buy Maria something nice, or give her the cash if that's what she needs. I add the money to the growing stack in my back pocket. I'm just the guardian of this; it's not mine. My protective instincts are lit up and I feel, irrationally, like I'm working to support her and she just doesn't know it yet. It feels like a cheesy romcom set-up where I blow her mind with my romantic dedication. Maria comes back the next night. I make her put my work schedule in her phone so she knows when I'll be around and when I won't. We make out in the back room again. She puts my hands under her shirt and I spread my fingers over her ribs. I stroke the underside of her breasts with the backs of my fingers and we both moan. I palm her breast with her nipple between my index and middle fingers and feel myself shaking. I'm so wet, I'm losing my shit. I push up her shirt with my free hand and pull her other nipple into my mouth, surging against her. It's dark and soft and warm. She gasps and I suck, flicking the tip with my tongue. Fuck, she smells so good. Suddenly, she pushes on my head. I lift up and she tugs her shirt down. I jump and pull my hands off of her, "Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry." "No, no," Maria puts her hand on her face, "It's fine. I just don't—" she shakes her head, "Sorry. I don't know." "No, I'm sorry. That wasn't cool. I don't want to—" I swallow, trying to pull my thoughts together, "I want to be good to you. Just do what you want. So, let me know, okay? If I do something you don't want." She nods. I make her food and tell her jokes on the curb until she has to leave. The next night, I buy a sleeping bag on clearance at the sporting goods store at the mall and hide it in the trash until Parteek leaves. I bring it inside and unzip it to a flat sheet on the backroom floor, so we have "some space, some options," I tell her. She smiles at me with one eyebrow cocked. I say, "Spoon with me." I hold her the whole hour, her body curled inside the curve of mine, my arm under her breasts, around her ribs, her hips in my lap. She tells me about a dog that lives in her neighborhood who has "at least fifty sweaters. I swear, every day it's a different sweater." I laugh into her hair, "It's fall, too. What kind of insane dog-coat game is he going to have in the winter?" She laughs, I hold her tighter. She asks if I'm in school and I tell her about my classes. She asks how long I'll be working here and I can't tell if she's just asking questions, or she's worried I'm going to disappear. Maria comes around every night to spend one of the quiet hours with me. Sometimes, customers come in and I leave her to stand at the counter, looking as bored and buttoned-up as I can. Sometimes, Parteek calls and I take a deep breath to depress the sound of my voice before answering. Every time I come back to her, it's like falling back asleep to return to a good dream. Every hour I spend with her leaves a week's worth of strong emotions in my chest. I realize, after she leaves our ninth "lunch" date, that I've been lonely for a long time. I stop thinking about sleeping with sleepy customers. I fall asleep each morning as the sun is rising after making myself come to thoughts of her, warm and whispery, tucked up against me. I don't try to take her clothes off again. I touch her breasts through her shirt, palm her thighs through her skirt or pants or tights. I kiss her chest along the scoop of her neckline. I caress every inch of her arms with my nose and lips. I suck on her fingers when she's horny and grinding against me. When you fall in love, it happens slowly. First, you realize you don't know what love is. Then you fall. If she's wearing a jacket, I like to tip it off her shoulders. Sex isn't about orgasms. Sometimes it's a hoodie, sometimes it's a coat. I ease the collar up and back. I can feel her body heat in the gap. I tip it back off her shoulders and smell her skin. I can get a quarter of what I want from staring at a girl, maybe I can get the rest just like this. The second thing you realize, when you fall in love, is you don't know what you want. I want to ask her if I can come see her on my day off, but I'm afraid to break the spell. ————— I skip breakfast—what I'd call dinner—on Friday, my first day off all week, and go straight to bed. When I wake up it's ramen and instant coffee in my dusky kitchen because I blew my food budget on Mini Mart food for Maria. I put on men's pants, a t-shirt, a jacket made for a very small guy, and a snapback. Georgia says I try to look more gay on my days off to make up for the work-day uniform. I head for the big book store downtown to window shop until it closes at midnight. I turn down the long block across from the post office distribution center and there she is. White hair, black clothes, drifting along next to the chain link fence like a ghost. My first instinct isn't to call out or greet her, but to tackle her. My chest thumps, telling me to catch her like a lightning bug. I want to protect her. I want to wrap her up and hold her, like I'm supposed to. "Maria!" I shout, but there's no need because she's already looking at me. She changes course, crossing the street to reach me. In the last three steps before she's in front of me, I fight myself to stand still. I want to sweep her up. To kiss her, lovesick and crazy, out here in the dark, where half the streetlights are broken. I want to catch her face in my hands and say over and over, 'Are you okay? Are you okay out here?' Because she lies like a professional, but she let a Mini Mart clerk kiss her so softly in the back room. I want to cradle her. I want to claim her. But she's not mine. Maria says, "You stay up all night on your days off?" She pauses when she's right in front of me, so briefly I can barely tell, then looks down as she takes the last step into me. She just steps forward and into my chest, like I'll catch her. Like an embrace is expected, the only way we would ever greet each other. My arms pull her in without my prompting. I hold her close and silent for a second, trying to catch my breath. I whisper, "Yeah." She asks my shoulder, "So what are you up to?" "I'm taking you to breakfast." Maria laughs. I catch her with a kiss. It feels so real out here. She feels like a real person, really in my arms, really tipping my hat back on my head and smoothing my hair to the side. I take her to a cool cafe where they serve breakfast all night. We sit in a booth and our feet touch under the table. I pay for her food and she doesn't protest. When we leave, I put my arm around her and she leans into my side. There's no good way to ask, 'so are we dating?' It feels like something I should already know. But when I'm just as close to saying, 'I love you,' I can't find the courage to ask something so simple. I'm in too deep. I'm walking her around the best parts of my neighborhood when she says, "So, I want to invite you back to my place." "Okay," I try to sound neutral. "But I can't. So can I invite myself over to your place?" "Oh, yeah, of course!" I scramble, embarrassed I didn't already invite her, "Do you want to— I mean, yeah, please do. Let's go. To my place. Like, now or whenever you wanted to go. Any time." She nods. Then smiles. "Okay. Let's go." We hold hands on the way to my apartment. My chest is tight and disbelieving. What are we outside of our nook in the back of the store? Who are we? What do we do? I listen through the door before I open it, hoping my roommates are in their rooms. It's past eleven and they're usually in bed by now, watching Netflix on their laptops until they fall asleep. I lead Maria into the kitchen; it's empty. I ask if she's hungry or thirsty, if she wants to go to the bathroom. She shakes her head. I lead her by the hand into my room. I close the door behind us and lock it. I stand, for just a second, with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is pounding, my hands are sweating. I'm trying to ask myself, honestly, what I think we're going to do in here. I'm wide awake and I'm locked in with her and a bed and my body only has one gear that it's revving as loud as it can. I turn around to see Maria sitting on my bed. She crawls backward on her hands and brings her feet up onto the mattress. She kicks off her shoes. Her skirt rumples around her hips. I can see green underwear through her black tights. She giggles and unzips her hoodie. I take a step forward as she shoulders her coat off and throws it at me. I catch it and drop it. She sits back on her elbows and lets one knee fall open. I start shaking my head. I crawl onto the bed, straddling her with my knees on either side of her hips. I set my hands on either side of her shoulders and lose it. I fall to my forearms. Framing her head, cradling her, I press my forehead to hers, breathing hard like I might cry. I whisper, "Oh my god, Maria." I barely breathe the sounds, telling her lips, trying to tell her closer, tell her better, "Oh my god, oh my god." I'm braced over her like a roll cage, barely touching her. My hands are shaking in her hair and I'm kissing her, mumbling, "You are so beautiful. You have no idea." She whimpers back like she's trying to keep quiet. She puts her hands on my shoulders to keep me close. She takes my hat off and puts it back on. I tell her I love it when she touches my hair. She bites her lip when I look into her eyes. I ask her, "What can I do for you?" We're already one puddle on top of the comforter. Her knees are bent and I'm laying between her legs. We've laid like this before, but now the air is crackling with intention and I feel like I'm breathing lust up and out of my lungs like sparks. She says, "Take my tights off." So I sit back on my heels. I raise her skirt with both hands and slip my fingers under the tights' elastic waistband. I pull them down and she lifts her hips. I stare at her milky thighs and pull the nylon down and off her feet. I kiss the dimples in her knees with my lips, then kiss the underside of the joint with my whole mouth. I lick the sensitive crease and she moans, then cuts the sound off. I kiss up her inner thigh and she spreads her legs. I groan when I reach the edge of her underwear. I press my cheek flat against her pussy. I can smell her through the fabric, warm and floral. I raise my eyebrows to look up at her as I nose against her labia, pressing softly all over, feeling her out. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Something about the smell of it, feeling the damp heat of a girl's underwear on my face, sets my instincts rolling. I lay flat on my stomach and let my legs hang off the side of the bed. I reach around the thickest swell of Maria's hips and pull her ass and thighs toward me so she's right under me, spread like a feast. I love her curves. I lift her, not off the bed, just a little upward tug, to feel the weight of her legs on my arms. I kiss the crease of her thigh and start edging under the seam of her underwear, kissing the edge of her outer labia. Her pubic hair is trimmed short. It pricks my lips and nose. She asks, "You gonna take my shirt off first?" I nod, grinning loosely. I detangle myself from her legs and crawl up her body again. I lift the hem of her shirt and she arches her back. When I pull it over her shoulders, she rounds them up off the bed to help me. Her breasts look softer in the light of my room. They look tender and sensitive, less like the irresistibly erotic things that drove me out of my mind in the back room. I sit on her hips and trace the under curves lightly. Maybe it's just the way she's looking up at me, nearly naked with her hair mussed on my bed, that makes her look so fragile. I slide my thumb gently up and over one nipple, "Can I use my mouth?" Maria nods. I curl over her and put both of my hands on her ribs, with my fingers wrapped around the back. I breathe hot and slow over one nipple and she arches up, pushing it into my mouth. I make a muffled noise and lower her back to the bed. I lick with a flat tongue, then a pointed tip. I suck and pinch the nub between my teeth. I flick it back and forth with my tongue, then massage it in my mouth. Each time, I'm listening to see how she responds, which movement makes her breath catch. Sucking made her groan, so I suck on the other nipple and massage the first with my fingertips. I suck harder and her stomach jumps. I reach down, quickly, and stroke my hand firmly up her pussy. She makes the sound I'm searching for. An open-mouthed moan that judders out, breath fighting with sensation. I do it again, sucking hard and stroking her. Maria twists and stretches under me. She lifts her chest closer to me and pushes her hips down into my touch. I keep going. The cardinal rule of sex with a girl: when you've found something she likes, don't stop doing it. Just keep going and going. Do it for as long as you can. Until she tells you to stop. Maria gets louder and her body keeps coming apart in my hands. I move back and forth between her nipples, pulling those dark circles into my mouth. I alternate between pressing my hand flat against her to rub firm, slow circles into her clit with my palm, and drawing my fingertips up the length of her. I can feel my middle finger parting her labia and pressing just inside. Stroke, stroke, stroke, I can feel the wetness in the fabric seeping through. The best thing about fucking girls is that it's not obvious when exactly you begin to fuck. Is it when you first touch her through her clothes? When your tongue touches her clit? What about when you're kissing her labia? What about her thigh? Is it when you put your fingers in? If you even get that far, if she even wants that. Or is it as soon as she's naked in bed with you? There's no clear start. You just start fucking somehow, trip into each other's arms, and slide downhill into ecstasy. Maria is huffing, breathing heavy. Her sounds are growing higher and clearer. I push back quickly, pull her underwear aside, and lick up the length of her pussy. I want to surprise her, to get her worked up with my hands then catch her breathless with the crisp pleasure a tongue can give. It works. She makes the most incredible noise. If my roommates weren't awake already they probably are now. I pull back and slow down. Her inner labia show just a little between the outer, like four lips in a row. The inner pair are dark purple and textured, with a thin, clear strand of wetness reaching out from between them, stretched to a long, wet line in her underwear. I settle my face against her and drag my closed mouth up her labia, wetting my lips. I use my tongue as lightly as I can, making her nerves reach for the sensation. It's easy to overwhelm a girl, particularly the first time you go down on her. Turning her on and helping her relax enough to enjoy it aren't the same thing, and sometimes everything is so taught you can only do one or the other. I try to ease Maria back from that gasping point, where all her muscles are braced but the sensation is still strong enough to force her breath. I wet every crease, pushing my tongue between her lips just enough to separate each pair. I return to the center and push the tip of my pointed tongue inside of her. It's not deep enough to feel like penetration, but enough for her to feel the spread. She's salty and slick. I groan with the tang at the back of my tongue. I pulse in and out slow, going a little deeper each time. I settle my hands on her hips and squeeze. Now I'm swimming in it, her smell, her taste, the way the skin on her mound is nearly white under that dark hair. Something heady and urgent spikes behind my ears; now we're fucking. Now I'm inside her. I look up to see her looking down at me, slack-jawed with lidded eyes. She closes her mouth and bites her lip with a little smile. I want to say, 'don't worry about what you look like,' but my mouth is busy. I reach up and tug on her bottom lip until she opens her mouth again. Maria laughs, breathy and soft. She licks the corner of her mouth playfully. I make a muffled noise against her and peak my eyebrows in the center, to say, 'more like that, put on a show for me, you've got me hook, line, and—' Maria puts her hand on my head and blanks my mind to a bright white buzz. When you fuck a girl, you have to be willing to work right in front of her. To be watched while you try to give her pleasure. But you might find yourself making love to her. Then you'll be showing her a hell of a lot more than just your earnest effort to make her feel good. You'll find yourself naked in front of her, all your clothes on and your heart stripped bare. She'll watch you. Split open and incomplete. Whimpering out months of loneliness in helpless little sounds while you eat her out. You can work. Make something from nothing, but those same thin hands and ready mouth will betray you. You will show her every dream you had about her. You will breathe heavy, with a closed throat, when she invites you closer. You will give yourself up for her judgement. And you will both know it doesn't matter if she comes. It's a hook up. I hook myself to her like I'm drowning and she can carry me back up. It's enough. Just like this. The pleasure alone is enough. More than enough. More than I could ever ask for, or expect from another person. Giving her pleasure is a consuming calling. An honor that takes precedence over everything else. I breathe in through my nose and hum, just sliding my tongue up and down her clit. No worry, no shame, no sense of time, nor goal in mind. Just the girl in front of me. Midnight Lunch She's so wet now. Her pussy is full and red. The bottom is pushed out and the lips are separated in an engorged U. I can just see inside, a dark, warm cave that I taste before filling with my fingers. I lose an hour inside her. I taste her skin while she strokes her fingers through my hair and moans. Maria pushes me off when her thighs are shaking on my shoulders. I crawl over her to kiss her and we fall in a heap. I spread her legs with my knee and press her pussy to my hip. I kiss her lips over and over, feeling them quiver with arousal and overstimulation. She pulls my shirt off and wrestles with my utilitarian sports bra for a minute, until she's laughing too hard to make progress and I take it off for her. She draws her fingernails from the outer edges of my breast to the nipple. She kisses the pad of her thumb and presses it to my nose. I feel like that means something but I'm too undone to ask. I wrap her up in a blanket and throw on a sweatshirt to search the bathroom for a hairbrush. I find three of my roommates': one with stiff plastic bristles, a scratchy nylon one with bristles like a fake Christmas tree, and a fine-toothed comb. I grab a banana from the kitchen on my way back to her. I never asked if she was hungry, but feeding her is the first way I learned to take care of her and I'm not giving that one up. Maria takes the banana with an amused smile and peels it without a word. I hold out the brushes and comb, "Which of these do you like?" She points to the one with stiff plastic bristles, "Use this to brush. But hold onto the comb. Do you know how to braid?" I drop the brush and comb in her lap and crawl behind her on the bed, "Of course I know how to braid. I was a seven-year-old once." She laughs, "Braid my hair," and hands me a hair tie. I sit behind her, my legs spread on either side of her, and brush out the knots we made with our rocking and twisting. I smell her hair. I say, "It can't just be honey and egg yolks." She laughs and I can feel it through her back. It seems like she's laughing every three breaths when she's with me. That's right, my ego nods, that's right; I'm good at this. I can see her bare breasts and half of her face in the narrow mirror hanging on the back of my door. I can see a sliver of my own face behind her. I'm surprised by how sleepy I look, with tousled hair and gentle eyes. I part her hair down the middle and braid one side. It's horribly messy. The three ribbons of hair are all different sizes. They wobble between too tight and too loose. In a couple places, little tufts of hair leave one ribbon and join another. "It's perfect!" I exclaim while she laughs. Really laughs. Laughter that trips into deeper, fuller laughter. She covers her mouth and I pull her hand away. I chuckle too because I want her to keep laughing. I wrap my arms around her waist and murmur, "Perfect. Just like this. Wabi sabi." She tucks her head toward her shoulder, so the messy braid rests against my forehead, "What's that?" "It means imperfection is beautiful." She's very still for a second. She hums quietly, to let me know she understands. No "mmhmm" this time. I hold her a little tighter and she nestles in. I watch her braid the other side into a perfectly symmetrical rope. She leaves my braid in place and tilts her head back and forth to see both sides in the mirror on the door. Then she pulls my sweatshirt off and unbuttons my pants. She's more direct than I'm expecting. She pulls my underwear down and pushes my legs open. She puts her mouth on my clit. It feels like someone snapped a rubber band on my skin. I'm so wet my body talks for me. It arches and rolls. My hips stutter. If I open my lips I'll be moaning loud enough for the neighbors to follow along, so I hold my breath. Maria keeps up a steady rhythm on my clit. She never pauses, doesn't wander around with her tongue, doesn't use her fingers. She shoves me straight over the edge. I come. There's something I forgot about sex. About amazing sex. When it's unbelievable and your body doesn't need any coaxing, orgasm is just something that happens. It just happens, whether or not you chase it. Nothing like the slow draw of getting yourself off with your fingers, it's this crazy shake that climbs and climbs, rearranges you, then rockets up and tops out. I hold her to my chest as I recover. She tells me I taste good and I pet her uneven braids. There are no clocks in my room. I show her how to play all the games on my phone while we lay in a slack spoon. Her reflexes are better than mine. She sets new high scores for me and I kiss her bare shoulders. She starts kissing me back and we fuck again. You can't tell when the fucking ends, either. It never really ends. We hold hands with our fingers interlaced while I go down on her. I push my tongue in deep and pull out the thick, white goo her body made earlier. Her labia are soft and loose to the touch. Her body is so warm inside. She tilts her hips against me like she wants more and wants it right now. I'm careful when I put my fingers in. I keep them buried to the knuckle and just twist and curl, rubbing the skin of her g-spot. I don't want to rub her raw with too much friction. At one point, I turn off my lights so she can see the moon through my window. Her sounds get louder, like no one can hear us in the dark. I make her toast and we fuck again. She keeps complimenting all the little things in my room. The bedspread, the expensive, over-the-ear headphones on my desk, the pile of bandanas next to my closet. She says she has to pee, so I pull our clothes on and walk her to the communal bathroom with my arms around her waist and her feet standing on mine. My phone says it's almost 5 am. When she comes out, I walk her back to my room. We put on our shoes and go out. I walk her around the best lit blocks in my neighborhood so I can see her in the streetlights. The city is dead. The quiet hours are about to end. When we get back to my apartment, we start fucking the second I close my door. Like we were both holding it in, holding our breath, letting the urge build, waiting to exhale. I make her come with my fingers and tongue. I can feel her body contracting around me. She's loud and I tell her to get louder. I can hear my roommates moving around beyond my walls. I know they can hear her and I don't care. Sorry guys. I'll make you both cookies or something. I bet they can hear me too, moaning with my mouth full. She pulls my hair. I fuck her deeper. I moan like this can't be real. She says my name and it feels so good. I breathe her in. I love sex. This is what I want. Whatever this is. Is this a hook up? What do you call this? What would you call this if she was here all the time and never left? We talk nose to nose. There's this pink flush across her cheeks and she keeps smiling in the pauses. She tells me she's afraid of loud showers because someone might come in and she wouldn't hear it. I tell her I'm afraid of dogs. All dogs. Even little ones. She laughs and I shake my head, smiling, "They can all bite. Every single one of them." I stare at her while she gets dressed in the pale blue morning light. I don't think this is a hook up. She says she has to be somewhere in half an hour. I don't know what to say, how to end a night like this. Inexplicably, I'm aching. I walk over to where I threw my pants, in the corner by my closet, and pull them on. I feel the wad of cash in my phone pocket and pull it out. Of course. I walk over to her and see her. I really see her. Her back is to me and I can make out the notches of her spine through her skin. She pulls her shirt over her head. Can that thin layer of fabric do anything to protect her? She pulls her white braids out of the collar and lets them fall down her back. Hers is still impeccable and mine is unraveling. I put the cash back in my pocket. I walk up to her and put my arms around her. She tips her head toward me as I tuck my face against her neck. I say, "Hey. Do you want to move in?" She's still. Maria turns to face me. She blinks and I hold her eyes. She says, "Yes." I grin at her and after a pause where it feels like someone turned off gravity, she laughs. She shakes her head and looks away to laugh again. I pull her close and hold her. I hold her and it feels like it matters. Like I'm holding her still in a small room when she would otherwise be floating through the city alone. It sounds like she's crying and trying not let me hear. She says, "Where will we put my huge water fountain?" I snort. "Like, a drinking fountain? Or like a fountain fountain?" She sniffles, "A fountain fountain." I say, "Wherever you want. Right in the middle of the room. Hell, put in the living room. My roommates would love that." She nuzzles her head into my chest. "I hope that's real," I say with my lips against her hair, "We should put it in the shower and not tell anyone." Maria laughs, "No," her voice is muffled, "By the front door. Right when you walk in." I press my hand to her head to hold her closer. "Yeah," I whisper, "Perfect." I hold her and the sun comes beaming in through the glass. I feel it warm on my cheek as it creeps down our bodies. We spent so long without time that it feels right like this. I just hold her like, of course we have time. There's always more time. I break the silence, "I'll introduce you to my roommates after I apologize for the noise we made last night." Maria snorts. She laughs, then the sound stops and her body keeps shaking. Now she's really crying. She breathes in ragged and I kiss her forehead. I say, "I think I'm in love with you," and she laughs through the tears. Her knees go soft and I hold her up. She cries into the shoulder of my shirt and I cradle her. There's the rest of it. The missing three-quarters. The part I've been looking for. I see it now, complete in front of me, and understand. Like only now that I have it, can I allow myself to want it. I kiss her goodbye at the door. Fuck the cash. Now I know why the old butch was giving it away.