Too fast.
Her heel betrays her on the carpet.
There’s a sharp little “oh!” and she tilts sideways.
I do what any responsible, well-intentioned adult does when a woman is falling.
I lunge.
My right hand catches her hip.
Left hand…
Wait!? Where’s my left hand?
It’s…oh no.
My hand has disappeared down the front of her dress.
Oh, fuck, that’s a breast.
A full, warm, soft, bare breast, and my entire palm is just—settled there.
Time stops.
Her eyes snap to mine.
Her heartbeat thumps under my palm.
Or maybe that’s mine trying to exit my chest.
“GET OUT!”
“I’M GOING!”
I pull back, but nothing happens. My sleeve is now one with the fabric. My arm refuses to budge, and the sound that comes out of me is a goat in distress.
“THE CUFFLINK IS STUCK!”
“UNSTICK IT!”
“I’d love to, but your top is holding me hostage! It’s the—the inner thing.”
“The lining, you moron!”
“Why is it so clingy? Is it made of glue?”
“TO KEEP IDIOTS LIKE YOU AWAY! You better move your hand right now.”
I wiggle my wrist.
That was the wrong decision.
My hand slides.
Up.
Down.
