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Patrick: Show me.
Imogen: From here?
Patrick: If you trust me with it.
I do, actually. I probably shouldn't, but I do.
I hang my purse on the hook behind me, then I angle the phone a little lower, so it's catching my lips, my jaw, my neck, my chest.
My exposed breasts.
Snap.
Again, I send before I lose my nerve.
Again, he replies right away.
Patrick: Fuck. I might come in my pants at this rate.
Imogen: That's no fun.
Patrick: I'll make it up to you.
Imogen: You ready?
Patrick: Are you?
I'm not sure.
Patrick: We can do this another way. From here.
Imogen: In the bathroom?
Patrick: At my place, separated by the wall.
Imogen: No. I want to do it here.
Patrick: Meet me at the booth.
I right my dress, gather my purse, check my reflection in the mirror. It's not too obvious I'm not wearing a bra. And, hey, no visible panty lines. That's a benefit of going commando.
The breeze between my legs makes me feel exposed in the best possible way.
This is already a five-alarm fire. How am I going to actually bare my skin in public without dying of desire?
Maybe this is what people mean by friends with benefits. We have a regular relationship. I trust him.
I apply another coat of wine-red lipstick and I step into the bar.
The room feels quieter. I can make out snippets of conversation, smashes of pool balls, the indie rock song flowing from the speakers.
And there, Patrick, sitting in the booth.
He stands and holds out his hand.
I meet him in front of the wood table.
He wraps his arm around me. "You're driving me out of my mind."
