Chapter 09
June
This month, my name is Sassy. It’s really Sarah, but Sassy suits me just as well. I have hair in multiple shades of blue and green and a penchant for making devil horns with my fingers. I favor striped stockings worn with vintage Converse sneakers and short skirts held together with safety pins, and I’ve a lot of piercings you can see and some you can’t.
I’ve known Joe for about six months. I’m the computer tech who comes in to service the system his practice uses. I tease him about having to clear his cache of porn and he jokes back about having to wear sunglasses to guard against the atrocities of my fashion.
I like Joe a lot, and I’m pretty sure he likes me. He’s a good-looking dude, a real smart suit, but he’s got a great sense of humor, too. A rare thing, I tell him, compared to his co-workers. Once in a while he saves a doughnut for me from the box in the lunchroom. I sometimes pick him up a bagel with cream cheese and lox from the deli downtown.
It’s a good working relationship, but that’s all it is until the day I come across him sitting at his desk staring at his monitor with a scowl so fierce it’s as if he’s trying to burn a hole in it with his eyes.
“It’s a virus, it’s nothing personal,” I tell him as I set up the scan and prepare to clean his hard drive. “Half the practice got it.”
It’s going to set him back a day’s work, he complains, and I reassure him I’ll have him up and running in no time at all.
“If you can do that,” Joe says, “I’ll buy you dinner tonight.”
It’s not like we’ve never flirted before. I mean, I flirt with most everyone. It doesn’t really mean anything. But this time…well, this time I’m tempted to put on a little extra Sassy charm for Joe. It’s very clear to me, as it’s been for months, Joe’s in terrible need of someone to take care of him. I don’t mean in just a sexual sense, though I’m sure he’s got his share of offers. No, I mean Joe needs someone to ask him how his day was when he comes home, someone to draw him a bath once in a while, cook him soup. Joe needs some petting, something I’m pretty good at, but of course I can’t offer it to him just out of the blue. I tell myself it’s because he seems so down about the computer, and he’s seemed bummed the past couple times I’ve been in, but the flat-out reality is—Joe’s beautiful. He’s got features that line up just right, so pretty. It makes me want to sketch them.
He’s surprised when I tell him that later over dinner. It only took me fifteen minutes to get his computer working again, and he made good on his word.
“I didn’t know you were an artist.”
“I’m not, really. Art’s something I do for fun. It’s not my career.”
“You don’t have to make a living at it to be considered an artist.” Joe leans across the table, gaze intent upon me.
I feel the weight of his gaze all over me, covering me like a blanket. I might be out of my league, here. There’s flirting, which we’ve been doing for about six months. And then, there’s flirting with intent, which until tonight neither of us bothered with.
“So,” I ask him over dessert, a very good cheesecake we share, not because I’m the sort of girl to moan about my waistline, but because we both ate so much we can only stuff in half a piece each. “When you’re not wasting company time downloading Internet porn, what do you like to do?”
He’s got coffee. I’ve got tea. He stirs sugar and cream into his cup. I watch the dark liquid turn light as his spoon makes swirls. At first I think he’s not going to answer me, but then he does.
“I like to read.”
“Don’t sound so ashamed,” I say, teasing. “You do mean other than Internet porn, right?”
He laughs. Joe’s got a great laugh to go with his smile. The real smile, which he doesn’t use as often as the smarmy one.
“Yeah, besides Internet porn.”
We launch into a discussion of literature, lofty and base. I admit a passion for ridiculous science-fiction. Joe prefers mysteries and thrillers, he says because he likes the challenge of figuring out whodunit before the end of the book.
Dinner’s over and they’re giving us significant looks that say they want to clear our table, so Joe and I finish our drinks and the cheesecake and head out into the night. It’s later than I expected it to be, but conversation with him was so easy and nice it made the evening fly by.
On the drive home, the car is filled with tension he does nothing to alleviate and I analyze. Do I want to fuck Joe?
My gut answer is an unequivocal yes. I mean, I like sex. I like Joe. I don’t have a boyfriend and if he’s got a girlfriend, that’s not really my problem since he’s never mentioned her and he doesn’t keep her photo on his desk at work.
So yes, sure, I want to. I’m not worried it will cause awkwardness at work, either, because I’m pretty sure we’d both take it for what it is. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, even a real cutie like Joe. He’s too much suit for me, with my slightly vagabond lifestyle and eclectic taste in clothes.
When he pulls up in front of my house, he seems surprised. I live in neighborhood that used to be bad but has since become trendy and therefore, overpriced. I laugh at his expression and get out of the car. Gavin, the kid from two houses down, waves to me with the hand not holding onto his girlfriend. I wave back.
“The previous owner went to live with her son. It was in pretty bad shape. I’ve been refinishing it myself. I’ll sell it at a profit in a year or two.”
Inside, I get a rush of warmth at the appreciation he shows of my efforts. I show him the floors I stripped, sanded and varnished by hand, the walls I plastered and painted, the kitchen I’m slowly refitting with antique and retro appliances. I don’t have much furniture and the decor is plainer than he must have expected, based on what he sees of my personality.
“Most people live beige lives,” I explain in the bare living room, where paint cans and brushes still scatter the tarp-covered floor. “I want to sell this place to a nice, upwardly mobile yuppie couple, if they still exist.”
Joe’s laugh is rueful and self-effacing, and it makes me suddenly like him even more than I already did. “They do.”
He’s loosened his tie and his hair is a bit tousled. His cheeks hold a hint of color in that tawny skin and his eyes are bright, maybe from the wine I’d given him in my kitchen.
“I don’t live in most of the house. But upstairs, in my bedroom…”
Our eyes meet. I’m going to take him upstairs and let him take off my clothes. I’m going to give him what pleasure I can and assume he’ll offer some to me. I know this, and I’m pretty sure he does, too, but for one moment we stand as if frozen and look into each other’s eyes.
“I’d like to see it.” He lifts the wine and sips. Gives me that grin, the one I’m used to, the one that says he’s flirting. Funny how Joe’s regular flirting smile isn’t any different than the one he uses for flirting with intent.
Maybe I only think mine is, so I test it out. I sweep my gaze up and down his body, taking in every inch, before I look back into his eyes. I slide my tongue slightly along my lower lip, give him the lift of chin, the tilt of head, that says I’m dead serious.
“Then c’mon upstairs.” I’m challenging him, a little.
Heat flares between us. My flirting does have subtle layers after all. I crook my finger and he steps closer. He puts the glass on the newel post. I take his hand and link our fingers together, and then I take him upstairs.
I pause before I open the door. I turn to Joe and we stare at each other. He’s smiling. I am, too.
“Sassy.” Joe strokes the length of my hair, twining blue and green and violet.
“Joe,” I answer with a little wiggle of my eyebrows.
“Maybe I should go.”
My hand’s on the knob behind me, and I’m turning it. My other hand is still in his. I’m not letting him go. I push open the door and back inside the room, pulling him with me.
“Do you want to go?”
“No.”
“So then don’t.” Now we’re all the way inside and he seems about to say something but instead he just looks around.
This room rocks. Deep blue walls and ceiling, matching deep blue carpet. There are small specks of luminescent paint in the shape of constellations on the walls and ceiling. My bed’s a stack of mattresses on the floor, covered with dark blue blankets. I have a plain wooden dresser painted to match the walls. It’s like walking into the universe.
“Wow.” He turns as far as he can in a circle while being tethered by my hand. He looks at me. “You are an artist.”
His compliment touches me. “Thanks.”
He pulls me closer. I’m shorter than I seem and have to tilt my head way back to look into his face. His hands fit nicely on my hips, the curves of which I’m not shy about. I reach up to tug at his tie, loosening it further. I slip it from the loop of his collar and unbutton the next button of his shirt.
Joe puts his hand over mine. “Sassy, wait…”
I put my other hand over his and look up. “Shh. It’s okay. This will be fun, I promise.”
I’d always had the idea Joe was a bit of a player. I mean, a guy like that, no girlfriend, means he’s on the market for a reason. Usually it’s commitment issues, looking for the next great thing, can’t seem to settle down. Whatever. I’ve seen my share. His hesitation makes me think maybe I misjudged him, and a thought crosses my mind.
“You’re not gay, are you?”
His face goes so shocked it makes me laugh. “No! Why? Do I act like I’m gay?”
“No.” I undo the next button. “But you’d have to be gay to turn me down.”
He laughs. “I’m not gay.”
By this time I’ve got half his buttons undone and his chest is yummy. I quickly finish with the rest and fold open the material to get a better glimpse.
“Joe, sweetie, listen. I don’t know what kind of girls you’re used to, but let me take a guess, okay?”
“Okay.” The ease of his answer tells me he’s sure I’ll guess wrong.
“You like women. You’re not as picky as a guy like you could be, and that’s not bad. It’s a good quality.” I trace my finger down the ridge of his sternum and then around each of his nipples, which tighten quite nicely. Sweet. “But you’re looking for something in particular, which is why you keep looking, am I right?”
His gaze has been focused on my finger’s path, but he looks at me. “Yes.”
I pull his shirt from his waistband slowly and let my palms skate up his skin to his shoulders to slide his shirt off. His skin prickles into gooseflesh, though the room’s more than warm enough. I smile. My touch is making him shiver, and that’s very flattering.
“You’re not a player. I was wrong about that.” I lean forward to nuzzle against his skin. He smells clean. Too many guys like to bathe in their aftershave.
“I’m not?” He puts his hands into my hair and gathers it at the base of my neck. It’s my turn to shiver.
I lick his skin and smile again when a small hiss slides out of him.
“No. A player is someone who sets out to fuck his way through women without giving regard to their feelings. A player gets off on getting what he wants and then leaving. A player gets off on the escape. But you, Joe, you…” My hands go to his belt buckle. Below it his cock is already half-hard, and I slide a hand down to cup him through his pants. “You want to be caught. Don’t you.”
He pulls my hair to tilt my head back, and it’s my turn to hiss because his touch is a little rougher than I’m expecting. He looks angry. I’m not scared. I know I’m right. I stroke his cock through his pants and we stare each other down until his fingers loosen.
“It’s not that simple, Sarah.”
“It never is.”
I unbuckle his belt and reach my hand inside. I find his hot length and ease it from the confines of his briefs. I like the way he feels like this, all heat and hardness, a small, tight throbbing.
Joe’s cock is thick enough to curve my fingers and hard enough that I’ve got it out of his pants—it makes me think of steel. Moving my hand up and down just a little while keeping a firm grip moves his skin, just a little, up and down. From what I can see so far, he’s got a pretty dick.
His head’s tipped back a bit, his eyes closed. I could hate him for his gorgeous lashes. They make small flickering shadows against his cheeks.
His lips have parted. I let my hand move a little more, sliding along his length instead of just gripping it. I twist my wrist as my palm goes up and over the head of his cock, and he makes a low noise.
It’s a sexy noise, and my body reacts at once. It’s been quite a while since I went to bed with anyone, not from lack of opportunity, mind you. Let’s face it, any girl can get laid if she wants it bad enough and doesn’t have her standards set too high.
No, I’ve just been busy and my standards are rather high. Joe’s the first man I’ve invited inside my house for months, and the first I’ve taken upstairs in longer than that. This, along with the rare glimpse of the man inside the designer suits, makes me feel quite tender toward him.
I want to make Joe smile, a real smile, not the charming one he uses so well. I want, even if it’s just for tonight, to make him happy. Give him a little bit of what he wants.
He murmurs my name and I let my stroking slow. A slight flush has crept across his cheeks and down his throat, a sight I find unbearably sexy. He opens his eyes and looks down at me, and I sense a hesitation.
I bring his hand to my breast, urging his thumb to pass across my nipple and the ring through it. It stiffens under the thin fabric of my shirt. I want him to be certain this is what I want, too, that he’s turning me on. Because he is. This is.
Together we back toward my bed. He stops at the edge to push his pants and briefs down and step out of them. He toes off his socks while I pull my shirt over my head and unhook my bra. The air still feels as warm in here as it did before, but I shiver like he did when I touched him as he covers my breasts with his hands. My nipples are tight, hard pegs against his palms and I can’t wait to feel his mouth on them. And between my legs. Something tells me Joe isn’t the sort of guy to shy away from going down, and the thought excites me so much my thighs contract in spasms of anticipatory pleasure.
We’re naked in a few minutes, and a slow smile tilts his lips.
“Smug appreciation,” I tell him. “I’ll take it.”
I put a hand on my hip and cock it, thrusting my breasts forward in a parody of seduction.
His laugh sounds surprised. “What?”
“Your smile. Smug appreciation. You’re a man of many smiles, Joe. I’ve seen smarmy charming, sincere humor and reluctant wistfulness. Now I’ve seen smug appreciation.”
His thumbs brush against my nipples as he ponders this. I think it bothers him, a little, but he doesn’t deny any of it. Instead, he takes his hands away to look over my body again, and this time, there’s no smugness in the appreciation at all.
“How’s that one?” he asks, and we both laugh.
“Very nice.”
“You’re very nice.” His hands move back to my body, sliding up and down and around to cup my ass.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I tell him, pinching his nipple lightly. “I might not be the sort of girl you’re used to—”
He stops me by pulling me close to his body, skin on skin. “And I’m your type of guy?”
This closeness, the pressure of his erection against my bare belly, makes my voice hoarse. “Not really. No.”
“Too clean cut? Not enough ink?”
He traces the line of the tattoo I have on my belly, an intricate Celtic knot surrounding a Star of David.
“You got it.” That’s not really true, but to talk about the real reasons Joe isn’t my type while he’s licking my throat is a bit of fragrant bullshit. What we both want is to fuck and have it be good and unemotionally tangled. It doesn’t really matter that we’re not each other’s “types.”
He pushes me gently back on the bed and looms over me on hands and knees. His mouth now has moved lower, to sweep along my breasts and finally, oh, fuck! To take a nipple between his lips.
“Funny, I thought I’m any woman’s type,” he murmurs, licking and sucking at my nipples while I mewl in pleasure.
“Is that your problem?” I ask when he takes a brief break from my tits to concentrate on my throat again. “They all think you’re their type?”
His body covers mine, but he’s good enough to keep from crushing me with his weight. His mouth pauses in its exploration of the curves and hollows of my throat. His hand, stroking my hip, stops.
“Yes,” he says.
His face is buried against me and I can’t read his eyes, but I don’t have to. This feels like an honest answer, probably more honest because he doesn’t have to look at me when he says it. I run my fingers through his hair. It’s soft, but short, and if he uses product in it, it’s not much.
“Poor Joe,” I whisper. “They all want you but none of them know you.”
This raises his head and he stares, mouth slightly open and glistening with the saliva he’s been painting on my skin with his tongue. He blinks rapidly a few times. We’re glued together at the gut, his dick rubbing the softness of my belly.
I take his cheeks in my hands and hold him still to stare into his eyes. “Why don’t any of them know you?”
He shakes his head and pulls away a little, but not hard enough to take his face from my hands. I wait until he looks at me again, and I tell him something that seems pretty straightforward to me but appears to take him by surprise.
“Sweetie, it’s all everyone’s looking for. Someone to know them.”
His body tenses, like he wants to flee, and expecting him to get up, I let him go. After a moment he lays down on top of me again and presses his mouth to the beat of my pulse. We stay like that for some silent moments until I realize our breathing has timed itself to each other. In. Out. His skin has humped into gooseflesh, thousands of tiny bumps that scratch my fingertips as I stroke my hands down his back over and over.
His arms have gone around me as best they can in our position. We’re hugging each other. I wrap my legs around his waist and hook my ankles together to embrace him as completely as I can.
He’s not saying anything, but his cock’s still hard and his heart is thump-thumping against mine.
“How many women?” I whisper in his ear, my breath caressing him.
“A lot. Too many. Not enough.”
This makes sense to me and I feel sorry for him again. I might be alone, but I’m never lonely. I want someone to know me, someday, but I’m not desperate yet for that someone to find me. Joe seems to think it will never come.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you?”
Mute, he shakes his head against me. His fingers splay against me, and we grip each other tighter. I can count the number of bumps in his spine, though he’s anything but frail.
“Roll over,” I whisper into his hair.
He does, onto his back. I turn off the lamp to make this easier for him, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. By the time they do, the stars have begun to glow against the ceiling. There’s a little bit of light from the window, enough to outline him in silhouette, but nothing else.
I crouch over Joe’s body with my knees on either side of his hips and my hands on the bed next to his ears. I can sense his body, the heat of his cock, but I’m not touching it. I let my hair hang down over both of us and move so it trails along his skin.
He sighs. The bed shifts as he moves, arching a little. I fasten my mouth on the line of his jaw, orienting myself. His skin tastes good. Smallish bristles scrape my lips and I bare my teeth to press them on his skin. I nibble him and dart out the tip of my tongue to flick along the places my teeth have touched.
He’s touching me any place his hands can reach, mostly my hips and ass and thighs. He hasn’t yet slipped between my legs to stroke me there, but that’s okay. There’s time enough for that. I don’t intend to rush.
I move down his throat to the hard bump of his collarbone. I bite and lick and suck his skin until he cries out. I shush him and soothe the hurt with kisses. His cock throbs harder against my belly. He likes that. I make note.
My hair trails over his face and arms as I move down his chest. I lose myself in nuzzling into the patch of hair there, which smells like him but more. When I find the small button of his nipple and take it between my teeth, his entire body jerks.
I laugh against him. “Sorry.”
His voice is hoarse. “Jesus, Sassy.”
“Should I be more gentle with you?” But I know the answer to that. With every bite his prick’s gotten harder, his breathing a little harsher. He lifts his hips against me whenever my lips part and my teeth scrape his skin. I do that now, before he can answer, and whatever he intended to say is lost in a garbled sigh.
I think Joe’s fucked a lot of women, maybe even made love to a few of them. But from the way he’s reacting to this it doesn’t seem he’s had many do the same for him. Which is a shame, because he’s got a body that begs to be made love to, all smooth muscles and perfect alignment. Some women, I think, scoffing, don’t know what the fuck to do with a beautiful man.
I don’t mind the darkness, even if it does make me a little clumsy. Half the fun is having his dick end up in my eye instead of down my throat the first time. I make up for it by kissing his cock very sweetly on the tip, once I’ve got a handle on where, exactly, it is.
It bobs against my mouth. I grip the base and stroke upward, a feather touch. I kiss it again, small tender kisses on the most sensitive part. I stroke it a few more times while I let my breath kiss him, and I wait until his hand snakes down to tangle in my hair and his hips thrust upward before I open my mouth and ease him inside.
He moans when I do, though mine’s muffled. I keep my grip firm just below the head and concentrate on sucking lightly until he stops thrusting. I admire his control and open my mouth wider, relaxing my throat to take him down the back of it.
Sucking cock is an art. Like playing the piano or painting, it takes practice. Enthusiasm. Skill. I like sucking cock for an appreciative man, the sort who’ll let me do what I want to do instead of trying to control it all.
I make love to him that way until my jaw begins to ache. By that time he’s moaning a lot, and I’m wet enough to feel it without having to touch myself. My clit tingles and I squeeze my thighs together and let them go repeatedly, a little trick that can get me off if I do it just right.
I stroke his cock and move between his legs to lap at his balls. I find the sweet spot at the base of his testicles and press him with my tongue and fingers until his thighs tense beneath me and his groans take on a certain quality I recognize.
I ease off, moving back up to suck a little at the tip of his cock. I crawl up his body, kissing along his chest and shoulders until the notch of my cunt aligns with his cock. When his prick strokes my clit, I shudder. I rub myself back and forth along him like that a few times, then lean up to grab a condom from the nightstand drawer. I lift up enough to put it on him.
He’s gone quiet. I have a hand on his bicep to support myself, and the muscles there are trembling. Slowly, slowly, I maneuver myself onto his erection, shifting and rocking my hips to get the perfect fit. It’s been so long since I’ve had a man inside me I wanted to savor every second. That, and though I’m wet and the condom lubricated, Joe’s big enough to stretch me. When the tip of him nudges my cervix, I take a deep breath, but that’s it, he’s all the way inside me. My thighs grip his hips. I put my hands over his nipples and tweak them lightly.
He surges inside me. I wait until he settles and lean forward, changing the angle just enough so he can push inside me a fraction more. Then I move. Slowly, because I think he needs it that way.
We rock together like a boat on a lake. Gentle, back and forth waves with every so often a bigger one to tip it and make you remember just how deep the water is, and that you can’t swim.
We fuck that way for a long time. He lets me control it. If he gets too frantic, I stop. I bite his throat, his shoulder, a nipple, and lick the spot after. I rub my clit against his belly with every thrust. It’s an intermittent, tantalizing pressure that sends me into oblivion.
I come for a very long time, and it’s wonderful. Joe, bless him, waits until I’ve finished before he picks up the pace and thrusts inside me ever faster until at last he’s done, too.
My body falls forward. He puts his arms around me. My face fits perfectly into the curve of his shoulder. My hair’s gone all over the place, tickling, but I’m too sated to push it into a semblance of order.
The moment he softens and begins to slip out could be awkward, but it’s not. I reach to my drawer and grab out a clean washcloth, kept there for this very purpose, and I get us both cleaned up and the dispose of the rubber in the garbage as easily as defragging a hard drive. I settle down next to him, a leg thrown over his, and pull up the covers over both of us. It’s a bit chilly in here.
We’re not saying anything, but neither is he getting up and leaving. I don’t want him to feel he has to go, but I don’t want him to feel he has to stay, either. So I wait a few more minutes in silence before I kiss his shoulder and lift myself on an elbow to look at him.
I can see only the outline of his face as he turns to me. Cheeks, nose, chin, the hollows of his eyes. He could be smiling, he could be glaring, but somehow I imagine he’s only looking.
“What is it?”
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“That’s a million dollar question.” I touch his chin with my fingertip. “I don’t want one right now, I guess. I’m not looking for one, anyway. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t turn one down if life threw him in my lap, you know? But I’m not trolling.”
“You’re not like most of the women I know, then.”
“Honey, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me that, I’d be able to retire.”
We laugh, gently, and I tuck myself against him again. I stroke my hand down his chest, over and over, petting him just the way I thought he needed it earlier today at the office.
If he were a cat, I think Joe would be purring. He’s gone all loose and warm and his voice sounds drowsy when he answers me.
“I mean, most of the women I meet want a boyfriend. They might say they don’t. But they all do.”
“Well, sure they do. Most people, if you ask them, want someone. Nobody likes to be alone.”
“They see a suit and a car and a job.”
I wonder if he’d regret saying these things when the sun is up. If he’d have said them across the dinner table instead of in post-coital splendor. But he’s said them, and I appreciate his honesty.
“And you see tits and ass and hair.”
Beneath me, his body stiffens but relaxes almost instantly. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
“You could meet a nice girl…in church…” I venture, smiling.
Joe snorts. “I don’t go to church.”
“How come?” I’m curious, always, about what makes people tick. “Are you Jewish? Joe!”
I get up on my elbow again, dramatically. “Omigod, if you’re a nice Jewish boy, my dreams have come true! Marry me and have babies!”
He laughs and his hand comes up to stroke down my hair again. “I’m not Jewish.”
“Well, damn,” I tell him. “Too bad. I thought all your problems were solved.”
He’s too nice a guy to tell me there’s no way in Gehenna he’d actually marry a girl like me, but then I’m too nice to say the same about him. We laugh together, and it’s nice. He yawns and I glance at the clock. It’s late. I don’t have to be up early in the morning, but he probably does.
“Tell you what, bunny,” I say. “Stay here tonight and get some sleep, and in the morning I’ll make sure you’re up and out the door in plenty of time to run home and get ready for work. I’ll even make you eggs.”
“You will?” His head turns on the pillow and his eyes catch a hint of silver from the faint moonlight.
“Sure.” I stroke his chest again, to assure him. “Turn over.”
He hesitates, but does, and I spoon him from behind. My belly fits just right against the curve of his ass. I put my arm over his chest and find his hand, which I holdagainst us both. At first, he’s almost vibrating with tension but in a few minutes I feel his muscles relaxing, one by one by one until he’s breathing deep and I know he’s asleep.
I hated Sassy. I wanted to rip out every single blue hair from her head. I hid it by pretending great interest in my sandwich.
“So, did she make you eggs?” I took a bite of sawdust and washed it down with bile.
“No. I woke up before she did and left.” Joe wasn’t eating yet. He leaned back against the bench and stretched out his legs.
I try not to be smug and satisfied with that answer. “So…are you going to see her again?”
He looked at me. “I see her almost every week.”
I’d like to pretend this fact doesn’t make my gut twist. “So it’s going well for you.”
“She comes into work, that’s all, Sadie. I haven’t gone out with her again.”
“Why not?” I put down my sandwich and concentrated on the soda, sucking so hard the straw rattled the ice in the cup.
“Because she’s not my type, and she’s not looking for a boyfriend, anyway.”
I knew this; he said as much in the telling of the tale. Still, he’d spent the night with Sarah, which he never did. And I couldn’t get the vision of her holding him out of my head.
“I like her,” Joe said, after a few moments.
“There’s nothing wrong with liking her,” I answered crisply. “She sounds very likeable.”
From the corner of my eye I see him looking at me intently. “What do you see, Sadie? When you look at me? Am I just a suit and a car and a job?”
I watched the second hand on my watch spin around the dial twice before I answered. “No.”
“Look at me, Sadie.”
I did.
“What do you see?”
I gave my head a small, purposeful shake and looked away. “I should be getting back. I have an appointment in half an hour.”
Joe has a very nice laugh, a deep and hearty chuckle that’s like listening to the ocean. The noise he made just then aspired to become laughter but didn’t quite make it.
“See you next month.”
I nodded, still not looking at him. He didn’t get off the bench. His gaze burdened me.
I am always watching Joe walk away from me. Today I was the first to my feet and turning my back. I left him sitting on the bench, and though I wanted to, I didn’t turn back to look at him when I went.