Page 33 of There Are No Saints

Now my own smile feels rigid on my face, hardening like plaster.

He slides his hand all the way up to my crotch, his fingers grazing my pussy lips.

“Oh, you naughty little whore . . .” he murmurs, under his breath. “You’re not wearing any underwear . . .”

He thinks I did it for him.

I’m in the ridiculous position of wanting to shove his hand away when it appears that this is exactly what I wanted.

Under the cover of the table, he rubs his fingers back and forth across my slit, his middle finger grazing my clit. It feels good like it always feels good to be touched there, even though I don’t really want this. My throat constricts and my face burns. I feel like everyone seated at the tables around us knows what he’s doing, and the waitress knows too. They can all see me blushing.

Josh leans over and murmurs, way too close to my ear, “Maybe we should skip the rest of dinner . . .”

I clamp my legs together, shoving his hand away.

“Actually,” I say, “I’ve got to get back home. I’ve got this project I’m working on. It’s, uh . . . I just have to go.”

I stand up from the table, almost knocking my chair over backward.

Josh is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. He might be right.

“You’re gonna leave. Right now. In the middle of dinner,” he says.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I say.

I snatch up my purse, throwing it over my shoulder.

“Just . . . here,” I throw down twelve dollars that I can ill afford to spare.

It’s the wrong thing to do. Josh is more offended than if I’d just stuck him with the check.

Too bad— I hurry out of the restaurant, back down Frederick Street, all the way back to my house.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been irritated by the way a man touches me—actually, it happens a lot. I have sensory issues, sound and touch affecting me worst. Tonight I’m keyed up ten times worse than usual. I feel like Peter Parker right after he gets bitten by the radioactive spider, when the onrush of super senses almost makes his brain explode.

I can still feel the hot moisture of Josh’s breath in my ear, and the patch on my arm where his fingers tickled me.

I can hear the shrill sound of Frank’s electric toothbrush, and the irritating buzz of the ceiling fan in the living room. Even the irregularclank, clankof its little metal chain swinging against the light.

I clamp my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t block out the sounds.

Breathing hard, I grab my headphones and turn on my music full blast.

Flopping down on my mattress, I try to lay still.

Sweat begins to trickle down between my breasts. This room is fucking stifling; it must be a hundred degrees.

I’m sleeping outside tonight. I have to.

Throwing the glass door open, I drag my mattress out on the tiny porch.

I lay down on my lumpy futon, headphones on my head, arms and legs outstretched.

A light sea breeze dances across my skin. The sky is thick with clouds, piled up in deep drifts of purple, ash, and indigo.

I close my eyes, sinking into the music, finally finding peace.

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