Page 31 of Petrichor

“So why did you want to meet him?”

“I wanted to thank him. That was my first intention, anyway, but I can’t ever find the right moment.” I feel like he’s the only link left to my brother. It’s crazy, but I don’t want to let it go.

“Did you fucking imprint on him like a little duck or something?” Art jokes.

I open and close my mouth before replying. “If the baby duck grows up and wants to be fucked by his dada…yes.”

“Sheesh! Such a horn dog.” Art smirks, eyes focused solely on me. “Word around is that he’s as straight as an arrow and as endowed as a horse. Wait, who’s got a bigger dick, horses or elephants?”

Damn but his cock is gorgeously flawless. Size, girth, length, smell, and taste—from the moment it touched my tongue to when it slid down my throat. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, and goose bumps erupt on my arms. The fact that I have no chance of ever feeling it again depresses me. Marco orders me around most of the time, and the rest he just studies me like a bug under a microscope. He asks me a few private questions the short times I see him, like he’s trying to find out how I ended up there with him.

“Yes, he is big,” the words slip out of my mouth.

“Geez Louise. Something definitely happened. Art, your dirty nose strikes again. You’re freaking amazing.” He gives himself a few immodest pats on the shoulder. Talking to himself in third person is something he does often. “How did you tame the womanizer?”

Womanizer. I don’t have a doubt about it. “He was drunk.”

“My imagination is so very active…in all the wrong, delicious ways.” He moans with his eyes closed. I snap my fingers to make him stop fantasizing about me and Marco doing the dirty.

“What? Why the long face?” The sound as he sips with the straw the last drops of his matcha frappé is loud, disruptive, and repetitive, but Art doesn’t seem to mind.

I wait for him to place the cup down on the table. “As you said, he’s straight.”

He laughs. “Stop with the disingenuous act already. You are stunning in a very delicate, innocent way. You could tempt the fucking Pope with those eyes. You tempted me as well when we met—and I rarely top.”

“A corpse could tempt you.” I finally give the focaccia a bite. I completely forgot about it, even though I’m famished. The flour covering it ends up on my fingers, the grains feel odd on the tips.

“Necrophilia… That depends. Who’s corpse? Cary Grant’s must be all bones and ashes by now.” He scrunches his nose before blowing me a raspberry. “Look, I pride myself on honesty?—”

I cut him off with a derisive snort. “No, you don’t.” He’s the most evasive person I know. Still, I trust him. He hasn’t given me any reason not to, and he’s my only friend in New York.

“No, I don’t.” He purses his lips. “Okay, ‘the Knuckle’ was drunk. But too drunk to keep his eyes open and look at theguyhe was fooling around with?”

Marco actually kept his eyes on my face the whole time. That was so damn hot.

“He got it up with a man. He’s not totally straight,cherie. He’s just in denial.” He winks at me before turning his eyes on the guy he was ogling a few minutes ago.

“Men like him are not in denial, Art.” They are assertive, conceited and commanding. “He barely acknowledges me.”

Art uses the paper napkin to clean his mouth before stating, “Right now you’re like the hair around his butthole, there but without the need to be.”

“Shut up! I’m helping him with…stuff!” I respond feeling kind of insulted by the comparison.

“But you should be the one get stuffed!” He makes a hole with his left hand and drives his right index finger through it.

“Like I need a visual aid. I got what you meant, you wacko!” I bat his hands away.

“You need a plan.” Art looks down at his empty tray and sighs, defeated. “Fuck. Do you have a Snickers bar or a Mars? A BabyRuth?”

He just finished eating a lunch for two people. How can he still be hungry? I lift my half-eaten focaccia in offering.

He shakes his head. “Something sweet!”

“Why?”

“It helps.” He doesn’t need to add theduhat the end, I can hear it in his superior tone. “How about inside that Doraemon’s bag of yours?”

“I might have Milk Duds,” I tell him as I finish my focaccia.

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