Page 16 of The Couch Where It Happens

Fuck this lying to herself, she wasthrobbing, if that was even possible. She was actually throbbing in all sorts of places, and who knew that could happen from reading a trashy eighties magazine.

She left the crumpled periodical on the couch and went downstairs to turn off the lights, do her skincare, brush her teeth, all the usual rituals. Meandering through the house merely delayed the moment when she would lie down in her bed, put her fingers on herself, and fulfill the need that had been knocking under her skin since Hank had touched her, since she’d hung from his forearm, since she’d pressed against his marvelous cock.

Hank. Her guy who was big and strong and a little bit nervous, like the guy in the story.

She wanted Hank.

No, not Hank, not her friend that she needed in her life and couldn’t risk losing. She wanted a stranger. Who happened to look like Hank.

Stupid needs. She was one sad playlist away from bursting into tears. She was so screwed.

In the kitchen, her phone was charged, and as soon as she checked it, the newest text tripped her heart straight back into thudding action movie soundtrack-level beats.

Hank

Is the pizza offer still open

He’d sent it fifteen minutes ago, when she’d been reading the magazine and thinking all the thoughts she should not have had about him. That about-to-sob throat clog disappeared.

I just saw this!

That was absurdly perky, but there was no going back since his incoming reply dots had immediately appeared.

Hank

Meet me for a beer

Art class finished?

Hank

Power out at the studio

Sorry.

She was not sorry. In fact, if she had to categorize the current feeling, she’d label it gloriously happy because first, he was not posing nude in front of a room full of women who were not her and did not know how awesome he was, and second, he was free to text with her, Emma, right damn now when she wanted to see him.

I had a beer and probably shouldn’t have another at a bar and then drive home so how about coming over here for exciting leftover penne and I’ll even open a bottle of wine to go with it if you’d like. I think I have a pinot.

Her thumbs could produce run-on sentences nearly as quickly as her mouth. Skills, that.

Hank

I'm there in 20 minutes

Great!

He was not an exclamation-point guy, but even her auto-suggested replies generated overenthusiasm.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up sniffing punctuation!

He sent back a plane emoji, and then a string of symbols—a pilot, a nauseated face, a pill—because of course he understood herAirplane!reference. He understood all her cheesy movie references. They’d watched Disney and Star Wars and all the Toy Stories with Emma’s grandmother, and the superhero and raunchy stuff at night with beer and cookies after Obaachan went to sleep.

Having Hank come over should feel like it always did, like he was a guy she’d let see the inside of the fridge and not worry about him judging her condiments, but tonight, the prospect of seeing him and sitting next to him in front of the television triggered next-level angst.

She had twenty minutes to transform. As long as she didn’t get her hair wet, she had time to shower, take a fast pass at her armpits, then put on a cute outfit, like for a date, but for staying in with Hank.

Nine minutes later, she wore her robe and stood staring at the mound of laundry waiting to be folded that topped her bed. Fuck, that chore was no longer part of her evening, so it all went into the basket and the basket went… Where? Hopefully, her room was not the place for laundry tonight.

---