Page 86 of My Own Kind of Person

“Does she always work this late?”

“Only if she’s on call and there’s an emergency. Usually it’s for a ruptured appendix, which doesn’t take long.”

He passes me a glass, and I take a sip.

“Seltzer is bubbly water.”

He laughs. “Yes.”

His white T-shirt is tucked into his beltless jeans. He leans his butt against the countertop, and the jeans tighten around his hips.

I take a big sip of seltzer and it hurts my throat. “Where do you get your jeans?”

His face lights up. “I had to search.” He sticks out one leg. “Most new jeans are pre-distressed, so a machine adds fades, but those fades won’t match with how the jeans actually bend on your body, so the result is visually confusing.”

“I never thought of that.”

“If jeans are vintage, then the fades naturally occurred where the denim was creasing.” He demonstrates by lifting a knee up and out so fade lines stretch across his thigh. “See what I mean?”

Maybe I’m overly sensitive to visual stimuli, but only with these jeans.

“And they were cheaper because they’re used?”

“They were way more expensive.”

“Oh.”

There is who I was onstage tonight, someone eloquent and brave, and then there is who I am right now, someone who doesn’t understand pants.

Elijah laughs and puts down his glass. “Come on.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the stairs. There are little rugs on each step, and none of them slip. Upstairs is a bathroom, a room with a yoga mat, a closed door, and an open door to a room with a neatly made bed, a shoe rack of sneakers and boots, and a set of barbells.

He takes out his phone. “I’m setting an alarm for thirty minutes. Five minutes after that, we should be in my car driving you home.”

“I’m not ready for sex-sex!” I shout, and follow it with, “Sorry.”

“Is sex-sex a straight thing? There’s no hierarchy of sex.”

“Either way. I might need to take it slow.”

“That’s okay. I might too.”

I exhale.

Our shirts come off in a blur between the door and the bed.

“It seems more efficient this way,” I say as I shimmy out of my jeans.

“Life is short,” he says as he takes off his socks.

Street light through the blinds falls across his clavicle and chest. He places a hand on my bare waist and brings me closer to him. He places his other hand on my lower back at the top of my boxers and brings me closer again, until I’m pressed against the front of his jeans.

It’s a feeling of inadequacy, that I don’t know how to find such cool jeans, but even if I did find them I wouldn’t be able to afford them. Maybe it’s not that I don’t know how to wash my face, but that I’m not able to buy the more expensive face wash and moisturizers. Though I’m sure there are people who know how to look good without spending much.

We kiss, and it’s so fast and wet I don’t know what to think about it.

“Can I go down on you?” Elijah asks.