imagine him whimpering with a sort of bizarre reverence. I’ll read my magazine
while it’s happening. Maybe pop a bubble just to be a bitch. He’d probably like that.
My assumptions of how it will pan out seem reasonable, if a bit cinematic.
Winchester Boulevard is lined with gleaming Mercedes and Audis, its buildings
Victorian and impossibly clean. That it could be a teenager hasn’t occurred to me,
but it’s suddenly obvious. He must be living with his parents. If he looks any younger
than twenty, I’ll leave. I’m not gross.
I locate number 28, a terraced house joined to its neighbour like Siamese twins.
Apartment Six is in the back, a tiny alley leads around the side where the walls are
dingy and weeds poke through cracks in the concrete walk. This is closer to what I
had imagined, although the general vibe has thrown me off a bit. At least it doesn’t
seem like the kind of place where people routinely get murdered.
Before I ring the bell the door opens. From behind it comes a male voice that can’t
possibly be a teenager’s.
“Saw you on the camera, come in.”
I step through the door where I am told to wipe my shoes on the mat. Please.
The inside of the apartment is white and the only room I can see into holds a
floating bookcase filled with books. Their spines
are black or white or grey. Actual potpourri rests
in a gold bowl on a tiny table next to me. The
scent brings me back to my senses.
“You can leave your shoes on until you’re
ready,” he says, stepping from behind the door.
His face would be easy to draw; straight symmetrical lines, soft brown hair swept
back from his face.
He looks me in the eye. I feel shame and possibly love. I am willing to offer him
anything at all. He can do whatever the hell he wants to my toes.
“I’m fine,” I say. Ridiculous.
“I’m in a hurry.”
“Right.” I wiggle inside my shoes, sweat sticking my toes together like cement.
“Here goes nothing,” I say. Idiot. I step out of my shoes and watch him, expecting
him to respond to my bare feet in some way. Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe this isn’t a
sex thing. Maybe he’s a podiatrist. Or a shoe designer. Or a sock engineer.
Oh god, deliver me.
He leads me to the living room and motions for me to sit down in a yellow chair, the
only coloured item in the room.
“I’ll need to be under you,” he says, standing in front of me.
“Oh, okay.” I bite my lip. “Sorry, I need a bit more instruction than that.”
“First time?” he asks with zero intonation.
“Yes.”
“Women like you are mythically rare,” he says. I do not know what to say to that.
The only thing he knows about me is that I have feet I am willing to sell like cheap
candy. I mumble, kind of half-smile and giggle. I want to die.
“A woman who is willing, I mean. It’s harder than you would think.” He lowers
himself before me, bending both knees to the ground simultaneously.
“May I?”
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