~JANE

Being like
this
with her, in her bedroom, all
flesh and blood, her fingers
and mine, all
wrapped and curled
in hair and each
other, music wafting still
from the front room, music
Coming from here, too, coming
from us, too

Her hair smells like salon shampoo, and drapes cold over her shoulders. Her skin tastes like salt. In the heat of the moment she is humorless, but it's not drab. She's focused, all sighs. I can't tell if she trusts me, because I don't know what trust looks like on her face.
I've been with girls like her, I know how fleeting this is. I take my time with her, savoring her, committing her reactions to me in my memory.
"Is this okay?" I ask her.
"Yes," she says. She repeats it to me over and over.

I am so grateful to be here. I give her everything I have. I don't stop until she asks me to, with her hand on my cheek, pulling me up. I love the way her lips move on mine, spent and speaking to me between huffs of air. I wonder what she is thinking about, if I am consuming her thoughts or if there is more there, behind those eyes.
Silvya, in her actions towards me, is shy at first. But she knows what she's doing. I find patterns in her ceiling, until I can no longer pay attention to anything.

I ask her, in my most tender voice, if there is anything else I could do for her. My question is genuine. I want seconds, thirds, fourths, I want to show her more. She laughs at me, but not like before, not mean-spirited or gloating. This laugh is buoyant, exhausted, and satisfied.
Our skin sticks everywhere we touch. My cheek to her chest, our thighs, arms, and shins. I can feel the heat radiating from her. 

Her bedroom is like the rest of the house, just with clothes. Nice clothes, strewn out over chairs and spilling out of drawers. A complete disregard is shown in this room.
We drink water together. We sit up in her bed, close. She tells me how long it's been since she's had a visitor.
"There's no way," I say. "Two years?"
"Only nearly," she pouts. "No, I just. I don't know. It doesn't happen often."
"Does this mean I'm special?" I laugh.
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, so I take it as a yes.
"I don't even have friends over very often."
"How often are we talking?" I pry.
"Never," she admits.

I'm laughing at her, but it's a front. What I really want is to tell her I can fix her problem. I want to tell her I'd come over every day and every night if she'd have me. I'd be here every day. I want to tell her I haven't had it this bad for somebody this early on since college. The thing is, I'm not even sure of these feelings myself. Even I don't know how they'll last.

"I only have one friend nowadays," I say. "Her name is Mary."
"You have her name tattooed on you," she says.
My heart jumps. I forget I have it. It's on the right side of my back, on my ribs. It's small, but dark, in a place I rarely see. She has my name on her too, in the same place. Hers is in cursive.
I've had this conversation with almost every person I've slept with who sees this tattoo. Sometimes I lie and say it's for Mother Mary, but I don't want to lie to Silvya, even if I still could. I laugh sheepishly. "Mary was my girlfriend for a long time. We don't work for each other long-term but we're still great friends. She's important to me. We're family."
"I see," Silvya says. I can tell she's still sitting with the information.
"You should meet her," I say. "We were in nursing school together, except she's better than me, so she finished. She visits the diner during the day, too--"
"You still sleep with her." Silvya's not asking me a question.
I tense up. "How do you figure?"
"Deduction," she says. "Detectivework."
"Even in the bedroom?"
"Especially in the bedroom," she says, and kisses me, and then we laugh, and the tension is gone, and everything is okay again.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I was only making an observation."
"I guess it doesn't take a rocket scientist to guess, either."
Silvya shrugs.
"You tend to rub people the wrong way, you know that?"
"Yes," she says. "I don't always realize how badly the truth could hurt someone. I live by the truth."
"Do you, now?"
"Yes. And truth be told, a lot of the time I do realize the truth will hurt someone, and I still tell them. A lot of the time I'm bad to people and I don't know why."
"Seems like a good question to ask a therapist," I say.
"Yes," she says, but I can tell by her tone that this conversation is already over.
"This week was bad," she says.
"Tell me about your week," I say.

She tosses me a pajama set. A really nice one, two pieces, silky and blue. Hers is a deep plum.
"I solved a case for the police." She plops back down onto the bed. "They didn't have all the evidence to convict the prime suspect. So I found them the evidence. In return, they gave me a letter. They told me this was my final warning about crime scenes."
"What do you mean, your final warning?"
"Lestrade calls me to those scenes," she huffs. "They're treating me like I'm a crazy rando who just enjoys collecting evidence from the scene of a murder. I already told him what to look at and he didn't." She scowls. "They say the next time I'm caught tampering with the crime scene, I'll be in actual trouble. But then Lestrade gets all the credit once again for closing the case, and I get scolded." She leans back against the pillows.

I think it would be a lot less legally damaging to just go to school and get a degree, but I figure it's not my place to tell her what to do.
"Wow," I say. "It's a man's world, I guess."
"Lestrade isn't that bad," she says. "I don't mind him actually. It's just frustrating."
"I bet," I say. "I'm sorry you're getting treated like this."
Her tableside clock says 4:57am. It's still surreal to think that 24 hours ago, this was only a fantasy in my head.
"By the way," I say, "anytime you need me to leave, just let me know, and I'll be out pronto."

"Do you want to leave?"
No. But I don't want her to get me like this. I want her to tell me she wants me to stay.
"I don't mean that, I just mean it won't hurt my feelings. If you want me to stay, I will. If you want me to go, I'm gone."
"Okay," she says. "You're welcome to stay. It won't hurt my feelings if you go."
Evil. She grins at me.
"You need me to ask you to stay, don't you?"
"It would ease my mind, yeah," I say.
"Fine," she says. "Jane, would you like to stay the night?"

***

It's colder than hell this morning, but it doesn't even bother me.
I've got color in my cheeks, a skip in my step. I know where I am, and traffic is light. I can make my way to the nearest station.
Mary sent me a few memes last night. Even though I'd been using my phone all night, I hadn't noticed her in my notifications. I can't wait to tell her everything. I pull her number up on my phone and send a facetime request. It's her day off, so she answers wearing her puffy pink housecoat. Immediately, her face hardens in confusion.

"Are you outside? Where are you?"
"Guess," I say.
"Jane," she warns.
"I just got back from Silvya's house."
She watches me, chewing her cereal. It sounds like she's watching cartoons.
"The coffee girl?"
"That's the only Silvya, so yes," I sigh.
"Oh," she says. "Good job."
"Mary, she's the best, I can't even describe it. She's smart and cool and," Mary isn't watching me on the screen. Mary is looking at the tv.

She could just be tired. It is 9am, after all, but I can't help myself. I tell her everything; about the drinks, and the longboard, and the tattoos, and the music. Mary is nodding, and listening, and reacting correctly, but mainly she lets me talk.
"She's a cop," I say, "but not a cop. She's like an amateur detective."
"Wow," she says.
"She has her own website."
"Wow," she says.
"Yeah, and her skin is green and she's got vampire fangs."
"What?"
"I was just making sure you were listening."
"Why wouldn't I be listening?"
"I don't know, you're not as excited about this as I am."
"Well, she's not my new love interest."
"Come on, Mary, you know what I mean, don't play dumb."
"I'm not playing dumb!" she laughs. "I'm excited for you, Jane, really."

She gets up and walks into the kitchen. She props her phone up, so I can see her rinsing her bowl.
"I guess I'm just not convinced," she says. "You describe her one way but the things you tell me about her actions towards you paint a different picture."
"It's not like that," I say.
"You say that, but we've been through this before."
"You haven't met her. I know how it sounds, but I promise you, she's great, and everything is fine."
"Uh huh, yeah I hear you. What else happened? Anything this morning?"

I grin as the memory floods over me. Silvya woke up at 7:30am and told me she had to go to work. If I'd known she had work, I wouldn't have kept her up so long. At least, that's what I tell myself.
"Well," I say, "She told me I could stay as long as I needed, use anything in the house, and she said I didn't have to lock the door."
"What? She doesn't lock her door? Why?"
In the moment, I asked Silvya the same question. I can still hear the way she said, "Because I don't care," before bidding me farewell and closing me, a near-total stranger, in her house.
"I don't know," I lie.
"That's weird."
"You'd understand if you met her."
"You want me to meet her?"
"She doesn't have friends."
"I can see why."
"You don't wanna meet my future girlfriend?"
"Is she your future girlfriend, though?"
"I mean, I want her to be," I say. "We swapped numbers."
"So is it really a good idea to introduce your future girlfriend to your ex girlfriend?"
"Yeah, but you and I are past all that," I say. "We've come full circle, I think."
She sighs, watching the TV again. "Whatever you say."
"You'll love her, I promise, but I gotta go, I'm at the bus stop now. I'll call you later."
"Yeah," she says. "Be safe."
"You too," I say, before hanging up the phone.

***

It's mid-afternoon when my phone goes off. I scramble for it, and my heart stops when I see who it is on my lock screen.

It's me
-S.H.

She's so funny.

i know it's u silly
how are u!!!

I'm okay, doing work for a client.

sounds intense
what's goin on

Lost cat
Drab

isn't that a bit below ur pay grade?

The cat belongs to the daughter of some government official and she's very upset about it

ohhhhhh

She's not a very lively texter. I'm not sure what else to say, but I'm desperate to keep the conversation going.

thanks for letting me stay this morning, and not rushing me out lol
did u have time to get ur coffee?

She takes a little longer to respond. I lay back down in bed, with my phone on my chest. When it vibrates, I pick it right back up again.

Yeah I did :)

from the diner?

I grabbed a bottled coffee from a gas station.

aw that's no good

I pause. I could send a risky text right now. What have I got to lose? I type it up.

next time i'll wake up earlier and make you some real coffee

Fuck. I'm scared. Come on, Jane. Don't be a pussy.
Sending. Delivered.
I pat myself on the back. The hard part is over.
She leaves me on delivered for a painful few minutes. I watch my ceiling fan. I wonder if she's doing this on purpose, playing a game with me, enjoying the power she has. To build me up, or break me down. Relinquishing power is one of the best and worst parts of having a new crush. I'm in pain, agony, but it's invigorating. I can feel my heart pumping in my eardrums. When my phone vibrates again, my pulse spikes.

Oh yeah?

God, she's killing me.

yeah
breakfast too

I spend a few more painful minutes on delivered.

You cook?

sometimes

By sometimes, I mean almost never. But like anyone, I can cook a mean breakfast. She's not shutting me down, or avoiding my offer. I think a third risky text is in order.

on special occasions

She's typing. I take a screenshot and send it to Mary.

That would be fun

Yes! I sit up and cheer.

yeah?

Yeah *thumbs up*

:) cool

She reads it and doesn't reply. I wish we could keep talking, but I let it rest. Mary texts me back a bunch of shocked emojis.

m.morstan liked your image
bolddddd

I spend the rest of my day on cloud nine. I dance with myself as I clean my apartment. All the songs on my playlist sound especially melodious, the words applying to the feelings in my chest and thoughts about Silvya. Food tastes great. I get flashes of memories of the way she looked or sounded or the things she did and have to stop in my tracks to relive it in full.
I'm so curious about her. I can't believe she called me out about Mary, without a shred of remorse. She's cold, ruthless, but she's real. That's not to say that anyone else I meet is less real, or even "fake", it's just that Silvya doesn't care about being anyone else for anyone else's pleasure. She is just Silvya.
I want to know about her family. I want to know about her job, her college experience. The sheer pompousness of not getting a degree and demanding a job baffles me, but I've never met someone with so much determination. Except maybe Mary, who did finish school.

When Silvya is harsh, or downright hurtful, it doesn't strike me as malicious.
It strikes me as afriad.
Afriad of getting close to people. Afraid of ever letting her guard down around anyone. Afraid of being weak, or perceived as part of the crowd.
I don't know Silvya. I could be totally wrong about her. And maybe Mary's right. Maybe it's just hormones, or the yearning, but it feels right to me. Silvya and I have something about us, something between us. I couldn't have been the only one who felt it last night.

I keep her in my thoughts as the sky darkens. I wonder what she's up to, if she found the cat, if she's home now, or still working. She must have social media. I pull out my phone and open a few apps to search her name. She doesn't show up anywhere except on her own website and on Instagram, but it's a business account.

I close my eyes, and lean my head back against the couch.
I remember her looking at my tattoos. I remember her tracing the raised lines on my skin. Thinking of me, organically. She is curious about me, too. She is talking to me, too. I must be the luckiest girl on Earth.

But there's no way I'm the only one who's paying attention to her.