Page 19 of Deep Gap

There’s no crab walking between my furniture, or standing to the side to rifle through my things to find my pajama shirt. The neck hole is slipping over my head when a slap against the tile in his bathroom seems to reverberate, otherwise emphasizing the silence of the entire house.

I jump, tensing the way I did while becoming used to the clanging sounds on the inside. Byron swears. Not a minute later the water cuts off and the shower door slams. I shudder a final time hearing the drawers angrily slide open and whizz shut. Despite understanding the glass tree made from bowls and saucers on my dresser is on a solid footing, the noise has me fearful it will get knocked off and break.

He can’t see me, but I haven’t felt this exposed and vulnerable since taking my first steps into my cell finding out Ilona was gone. If anyone asks, I now know the sting of rejection when your breakup is the forced outcome of prison guards following protocol equals that of someone apologizing for kissing you.

There are no degrees to wanting to crawl into a hole and stay there till someone a thousand years from now stumbles across your dried and picked apart bones. The desire for solitude or seclusion are involuntary. They’re heartache’s constant companion.

Byron reacted as if kissing me was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. Meanwhile, my body lit up, and I’d been ready to kiss him back.

One more not-so-lovely memory to add to the scrap heap.

One more rejection I wasn’t aware would slice as deep as it does.

One more time I’m forced to endure my worst mistake while becoming someone else’s.

I get into bed, pulling the covers to my chin and wrapping my arms around me. The room isn’t cold, but my nipples are taut. I’m still flushed from embarrassment. And, dear lord, being cast aside must turn me on because I’m horny.

How pathetic is that?

Byron—who never showers before dinner—had to scrub himself clean of me and I’m raring to go.

Byron never showers before dinner.

Byron showers before we hang out at night or once I’ve gone to bed.

But he showers in the morning too. I’ve gathered the towels to wash and his hasn’t dried.

Why is Byron showering if he’s already clean?

My fingers kneed into my breast, the center of my palm putting pressure against my areola as if my hands are enlightened by my thoughts. Like the beeswax melting in the double boiler, heat spreads in my lower belly.

Did he… Was he… Just now...

The slap was out of frustration, wasn’t it?

What was he frustrated about, Greer?

My right hand moves down my body. At the apex of my thighs, my fingertips become damp. I take a tremulant breath in. The quiver in my knees as the pads brush against my clit makes me move my head back and forth on the pillow. I burrow down, spreading my legs, stroking until my fingers are slick and the only way to quell the desire is to slide one inside.

I pick through the fantasies I’ve had. Ellis. Ilona. The pretend lover that grew to know my wants and desires better than I could. The people I’ve found myself attracted to for the briefest moment before I’ve recognized it wouldn’t work out. They skitter to the back of my mind and in the forefront stays Byron.

I shouldn’t think of him while touching myself, but trying not to is futile. A soft moan escapes me. I clamp my mouth shut. What if Byron overhears?

You heard what he was doing. I scold. He can’t judge you when he gripped his cock in his hand.

I don’t know that. Yet, my imagination paints a picture of water streaming over Byron’s chest. He’s bracing an arm against the tile. It morphs to him leaning over me on the bed. I’m naked. My legs are askew and the tip of him is sliding against the places my hands are traveling to.

The flutter starts as soon as I think of Byron pushing inside of me. Plunging a second finger into my channel, my lips part, and I ride out the wave. My hand clutched between my legs, I roll to the side. Little sparks shoot where I continue to rub.

If I’d kissed Byron back faster, would this have happened with him? I press my eyelids shut and let sleep overtake me.

There’s no sense in revisiting the past. It changes nothing, other than understanding that since the beginning, an underlying attraction to him has made me wary and defensive. And now I have to live with those things on my conscience too.

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What kind of short circuit in my wiring turned me into such a fucking numb nut that I’d kiss Greer?

She’s told me she likes women. And she’s a virgin. And she’s celibate, so she’s obviously not looking to change the fact that she’s a virgin.

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