Page 141 of Friends Don't Kiss

“Come on my dick, sweets. I can hear the need in your voice. You’re just so ready for me, aren’t you? Atta girl. My little French whore, you.” His breathing labors. “Take it. Let go for me. Dripping tight cunt just for me.” The ruffling sounds on his end of the line accelerate, and I orgasm on my fingers, a pitiful release that doesn’t come close to what I’ve gotten addicted to with Colton.

Still, I whine in the phone, knowing he needs to hear that. It’s not a fake whine either, more like something I had to think about adding to our sad phone sex.

We stay quiet for a while, and I get situated on my bed, both hands on top of the covers for when my roommate comes back in.

I feel more than hear Colton’s yawn. “I should go to breakfast,” I lie. “Another big day today.” That’s not a lie.

He grunts. “Then I’m gonna sleep,” he says. “Love you, sweets. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you more.”

We disconnect the call right when my roommate comes in. “You look sad!” she says. She’s practicing her English for whatever international job she hopes to land. “You should telephone your boyfriend.”

“I just did.”

“Ah. I see. Let’s go out tonight after courses, for a glass.”

“After class, for a drink,” I automatically correct her.

She nods. “For a drink.”

I put on a brave little smile. “Maybe tomorrow. There are emails I need to take care of tonight. And I want to practice some more with the isomalt.”

“More practice? You’re already the best of us.”

“I messed up the beads, and I’m still iffy on the shading with the airbrush.”

“Iffy?”

“Not so sure about myself.”

That evening, after a full day of class and a quick chat with Colton during his lunch break, I go to the labs that the school lets us use for after-hours practice. After heating the nibs of isomalt, I don heat-resistant gloves, spray them with vegetable shortening, then lose myself in the complex task of spreading, turning, shaping the molten, translucent isomalt into ethereal beads. It irritates me, tests my patience, tests my willpower, and that’s why I want to master it.

I’ll tame the beast. I’ll be the best at this thing that drives me crazy.

It keeps my mind off everything else I can’t control in my life.

It’s past midnight when I get back to my room on my bed, open my laptop, and start with the email I sent to Annabel last night, and her response.

From: Kiara Smith

To: Annabel Plum

Subject: Tarte aux pommes

Hi Annabel

Hope all is well! Thanks for the tips on talking to the luxury cruise line. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Can you please help me craft a pretentious description for my new take on apple pie that needs to pass as poetry? It’s a thinly sliced apple tart. The apples are deglaced in chestnut honey, baked with cinnamon, pear liqueur, and caramel. I serve it with heavy cream.

From: Annabel Plum

To: Kiara Smith

Subject: Tarte aux pommes

Are they still doing that poetry shit?

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