Page 81 of David

This man is clearly carved out of ice.

He’s never ogled me.

Yes, there was some sexual tension between us that eventually morphed into irritation––as it usually happens––but none of my tricks worked on him.

I can’t make him fall for my looks.

He’s seen all kinds of pretty faces before.

He’s seen everything, I guess.

Glancing in the mirror, I notice how my wet blouse highlights my chest. My nipples are still hard from the cold and rain.

Still, no reaction from him.

Not that I want a reaction.

Of course, I’m lying to myself.

I flirted with him all evening while claiming I didn’t want his touch on me.

I. Am. So. Phony.

Even when he carried me over his shoulder, I exulted in having my body pressed against his despite my precarious position.

I need to destroy my obsession with him because nothing good will come out of this.

I leave my shoes in the hallway and set my purse on the wall table next to the entrance before I lock the door and head straight to the bathroom.

Minutes later, I step out of the shower, shrug on my bathrobe, and check my knees.

They are clean from the soap, water, and shower cloth I used but also red and tender.

I wish I had some sterile gauze to put on.

It no longer rains when a noise filters through the door.

Boom, boom, boom.

Someone raps on my door.

My heart jolts.

Who needs this shit in the middle of the night?

I know nothing about this neighborhood, and despite being optimistic about the person on the other side of the door, realistically speaking, I need to consider some grim scenarios too.

What if they’re knocking on the wrong door?

What if they’ve watched me being picked up and brought home?

I don’t know any of my neighbors.

I peek out the window but can’t see the person in front of my door.

I hate this.

They knock again.

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