Page 51 of The Pairing

A server brushes past with a tray of shots. A woman at the next table laughs, sudden and loud. Something sour and hot rolls down the inside of me and begins to pool.

“Like, three times. Barely. At specific request.”

“Maybe I’ve been practicing.”

Where is Fabrizio with that drink?

“So, that’s what you’ll do if he wants you to rough him up?” I ask. “Spank him twice and bake him croissants in the morning so he knows you didn’t mean it?”

“You liked those croissants,” Kit says, the corner of his mouthtugging upward. “And if he wants you to be sensual? Will you give him the Flowerday Special? A mixtape and a hand down the pants by track three?”

“I’d wait until track twelve.”

“Wow, youhavegotten patient. Did you start meditating?”

“I have simply learned how rewarding it can be to take my time,” I say. “It’s called having range.”

“Range,” Kit repeats, leaning closer. “Sure.”

“In fact, if you want any tips, let me know.” I shift toward him. “I’m happy to help.”

“If I ever need advice on using spit as lube, I know who to ask.”

“And I’ll hit you up next time I’m trying to, like, fuck a poet.”

“Oh, poets are easy,” Kit says, breath warm against my cheek, all apples and spice. “They just want to be thrown around.”

“Sounds like you’ve been throwing some poets around, Kit.”

“I told you, I’ve been practicing.”

“Still finding that hard to believe.”

“I have references.”

“And I have doubts.”

“Give me an hour and I can prove it.”

“An hour’s not nearly long enough.”

The eye contact is overwhelming, so I look at his lips instead. They part to reveal pink tongue against white teeth, and for one smothering moment, the only thing in Spain is that mouth, the plush promise of it, the way it would feel to push inside.

It crushes me then, slams into me and pulls me down: I want him. I still want him.

I kick my stool backward and jump to my feet at the same moment Kit does.

“There has got to be someone in this club who wants to fuck me,” I say.

Kit looks away, eyes wild. “I’m sure you’re right.”

We split up, not bothering to fight the crowd blocking Fabrizio. Instead, I find someone leaning against the back wall with a beer. I chat them up in clumsy Spanish, and at the first sign of interest, I ask if they want to get out of here. When they say yes, I turn to declare victory, half expecting Kit to be there.

He isn’t far, but he’s not waiting for me. He’s on his way out of the club with a group of hot locals of various genders, his arm over a woman’s shoulder, being swept away into the night. I left him alone for ten minutes, and he got himself invited to some kind of polyamorous Spanish sex party.

He meets my eye and smiles, fingers tangled in a stranger’s hair.

“That still only counts as one!” I call, but he’s already gone.

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