“Which question? You just hit me with a few, actually.” He shrugs out of his leather jacket, revealing a see-through white collared shirt, and a white tank top beneath. He looks like he’s selling cargo pants at The Gap, not teaching students at a college that costs an arm and a fucking leg. But still, it works on him, and right now, that bugs me too.
“Why did you write that, Noah?” I shake my head, and touch the edge of my glasses.
He tucks his head toward the door, the universal sign to follow.
“No,” I argue, but Noah winks and barters.
“C’mon. Don’t be like that.”
He walks out, and fucking hell, I get to my feet and follow him. After all, I want my answer.
I catch up to Noah right as he reaches the last door in the hallway, the one adjacent to ours. He tugs it open an inch, but I stop him.
“Why did you write that?” I press, feeling a little crazy from having asked so many times. A little crazy to be following him. A little crazy to show anyone that I care about anything as much as I care about this.
His eyes fall to my lips, tracing them slowly as his lids grow droopy. “Because,” he says, his voice suddenly all bass, raspy and velvety, like the first tender notes sung softly against a microphone to a quiet crowd. “It’s true.”
He pulls the door all the way open and steps inside, and I follow him. I’ve never been in here and it’s only after he shuts the door and turns on the light that I realize it’s a storage closet. Bigger than a normal closet, of course, but completely full of boxes of toner, reams of paper, binders, dry erase markers, old projectors, and opened boxes of light bulbs.
I shake my head. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Where’s your real review?” I don’t like being teased, and I don’t like hiding in a closet.
Noah reaches into his pocket, this time the opposite pocket, and produces a single sheet of paper, folded six times. “I emailed it to you, but here’s a physical copy, too.”
I take the paper and stuff it into my pocket. I will not read it in front of him, and I won’t be doinganythingin a partially dark supply closet either. “If you had the real one with you, why did you drag me in here?” Umber eyes drag over my lips before studying the shades of blue in my eyes. An invisible current tethers us, the back of my neck growing hot, my palms sweaty.
“To do this,” he finally replies. Noah stares at me inside his moment of hesitation. Whiskey, want, and seriousness look back at me. The edge of his lips curve. He slowly raises both large hands, and settles them on my cheeks, holding my face in a tender, almost intimate grip. I barely have time to breathe because his lips are on mine, soft but hesitant, almost like he’s giving me the chance to end it, to pull away.
They’re fuller than I imagined, warm and a little chapped,pressing into mine with a tenderness that makes the middle of my chest ache.
Heat spreads through every inch of me like aggressive wildfire on a dry hillside. Every nerve lights up as he licks into my mouth, tasting me. His thumb strokes my cheekbone while his other hand leaves my face, settling on my waist, pulling me closer. On the cusp of giving in, pressing my forehead to his and enjoying this moment, Noah pulls back.
He lets go, and steps away.
And then I’m alone in the closet with ink toner, my actual review, and a raging hard-on.
At home,I put the TV on in my bedroom, and I put the TV on in the front room. I crack my slider just to hear the hiss of bay winds eek through the opening. Once the kettle is full, I put it on the stove and ready a mug with a tea bag, though right now, I feel like I could down a fifth.
But tea is the safe choice. The choice with the least amount of loose ends, the choice that makes logical and respectable sense.
I look for anything else in my house that I can turn on, anything that makes noise or fills my space with any type of distraction.
But the TVs, the whistling kettle, the whipping wind–none of it silences the clanging bells in my brain, the screeching, rasping voice that cannot stop perpetually shouting—Noah kissed me.
Pacing the worn area rug behind my couch, I smooth my hand down my chest, catching my fingers on one of the shank buttons on my sweater. His lips pressed to mine, his breath hot on my mouth, it all rushes back to me and I find myself working the buttons, tossing off the Peter Christian vest. At the sliding door, I brace a hand on the frame and poke my nose out into the biting spring. It’s always kind of cold in San Francisco, and I’ve very rarely been hot.
Pressure stalks up my legs, settling with a heaviness in my groin. I tug at the collar of my dress shirt until the buttons pull free, and begin working the rest. A moment later, my shirt joins my sweater vest as I peer out at the bustling city all around me.
A woman rides a bike, a tiny dog in the basket, eyes slanted toward the bright sun. Two kids kick a partially-deflated ball, both in Messi jerseys. A floral delivery truck with peeling PRISON TRANSPORT lettering on the side comes to a sharp stop in front of a church.
But Noah kissed me, and no amount of distraction will work.
I run my hand up my chest, bare but slick with sweat, curving my palm around my neck, discovering the ends of my hair damp. I close the slider, and immediately, my glasses fog.
Noah kissed me.
In the kitchen, I check to see if my tea is cool enough to drink, and it isn’t and that’s the final straw in my choice to stay sane. Crouching, I reach around my pots and pans to pull a bottle of whiskey from the back cupboard. The lid skids across the floor as I hastily unscrew it and tip the bottle back, sucking down a few burning gulps. I don’t have anywhere to be for hours and hours.
I slide my glasses back on, and take a deep breath.
