Page 80 of Undefined Terms

Celyn looks like. Celyn looks like a girl sat on my bed.

And then the hands move, reaching for the mug on the bedside table, and the wrist turns and the fingers are long and the forearm has the—and the throat swallows the tea and the Adam’s apple moves and it breaks and reforms and breaks again and the dress is there and the legs are there and the lipstick is there and none of it changes what I⁠—

I don’t talk about Jay and Thomas. Don’t talk about the two lads. Don’t talk about the pavement or the lamb smell or the thought.

The bed. My hands on my knees. Flat, the knuckles white.

The hands are shaking.

‘I want you to fuck me.’

I say it how I’d say I want a pint. Flat. The site voice.

Celyn doesn’t move, two seconds, three.

Celyn puts the mug down. Looks at me, the eyes. The eyeliner makes them huge, the mascara makes the lashes long, and underneath the grey-green that I know. That knows me.

‘Yeah.’ The accent on the vowel. ‘Okay.’ Celyn stands. The dress shifts on the thighs. Steps in front of me. I’m sat on the bed and Celyn’s standing and the height is—Celyn looking down at me. The fingers, the emerald nails. Under my chin. Tilting. I go.

‘But slow. And you tell me if you want to stop.’

I nod. The fingers on my jaw. The nails on my skin. The lipstick above me.

Celyn leans down. Kisses me. Slow. The lipstick tastes like wax and something sweet and the mouth is warm and the tongue is careful and my hands find the hips and the dress is thin and the hips underneath are narrow and the bone presses into my palms and I hold on.

The jacket comes off. Celyn’s hands, steady, the fingers working the zip, peeling back the sleeves. My shirt. Celyn pulls it over my head and I feel the air and Celyn’s hands on my chest, my sternum, my stomach, the muscles that tighten under the touch.

The dress. I reach for the hem and Celyn takes my hand and puts it back and undoes the zip at the back, the sound, the teeth separating, and the dress drops.

Underneath, lace. Dark, black, maybe navy. A bralette, lace against the flat chest. Knickers matching, tights. The body underneath all of it, the ribs, the hip bones, the skin. Body I know.

My breath stops. Comes back wrong, too fast.

‘Here,’ Celyn says. Pushes me back. I go. Bed. Pillow. Celyn above me. Hair falling forward. Curtain of it around my face. Lipstick close. ‘Slow.’

Slow.

Belt. Celyn’s fingers on the buckle. Jeans, boxers. And then skin, Celyn’s weight on me, the lace and the warmth and the legs and my hands on the back where the bralette clasp sits and I don’t undo it because Celyn didn’t take it off and that means it stays. I know this now. Know the rules that aren’t rules, the things Celyn keeps and the things Celyn sheds.

Drawer. Celyn’s hand, the emerald nails catching the handle. The lube. Condom. The cap clicks.

Cold, the first of it, against the inside of my thigh, then lower. I flinch. Celyn waits.

‘Tell me if you want to stop.’

‘Yeah.’

One finger, slick, at the rim. Slow. The strangeness of it comes before anything else, the wrong-way-round of it, the body’s first instinct to close against the thing instead of around it. I clench. Celyn stops. Doesn’t push.

‘Breathe out.’

I breathe out. The finger works in on the breath, past the tight ring of muscle, and it isn’t pain, it’s just new, a pressure in a place I’ve never let anything be. My hands don’t know the job. They find the sheets and grip, because gripping is the only thing they’ve got.

‘Still with me.’

‘Yeah.’

The bottle again. More than I’d use. The cold, then warm, the slick of it loud in the quiet. The finger moves, slow, in and out, working me looser, and just when I’ve got the shape of it Celyn crooks the knuckle and drags forward over something that jolts up my spine and punches a sound out of me I didn’t sanction.