Dressed in white, she walked along the street, hoping for something different to come her way. It wasn’t much of a hope, really; this was small-town stuff, a borough of a larger organism, the towers and spires of an ancient city away off in the distance giving a withheld promise of something more. Something more— precisely what she was looking for. Withheld— precisely what she could expect.

She’d lost it yesterday.

Angelo she’d known for five years or so. A little too tall, a little too sure of himself. A little too eager, a little too painful. She’d slapped him afterwards, hit him hard with all she had, left a red mark on his face to rival the bruises on her body. She had thought that, by waiting till she’d reached her twenties, somehow things would be different; somehow, by virtue of the fact that she was demonstrably a woman, losing her virginity would be quick and painless and easy, would go automatically to some wondrous, awe-inspiring experience. Maybe if it had been with someone else. Angelo— well, what kind of name was Angelo anyway?

So, maybe it was a mistake.

But at least it was one that she was willing to rectify, right? At least she was out looking for something to take the taste out of her mouth. She wished there wasn’t such a literal connotation to that phrase— she had everything to regret, a picture in her mind that desperately needed to be painted over. Someone sweet, and smaller, and with kind eyes. She needed kindness.

Sweetness— she ducked into one of the coffee shops that had spread like a caffeinated plague across the town, and bought the largest, most oddly-named drink she could order. A grin from the peaked-looking teenager in front of her, a touch on her shoulder, and she turned around to be presented with the face of Jeremy, amiable as always. Half an inch shorter than she, he often ended up talking to her mouth instead of her eyes; she didn’t mind. She’d gotten used to it, having known him for— what was it? Her entire life? Before, even, who knew. She’d always found him to be so familiar, his looks and his mannerisms and his ways, and she wasn’t quite sure why women found him so attractive. He was slow, so slow, and still had a hard edge that she didn’t quite get. She knew him inside out, and that edge must just be from himself; there was nothing in his life to have transferred it, nothing to have broken his heart and sharpened the pieces so. He was as stable as she, and she realized suddenly that looking into his placent face was like looking in a mirror. They were both shallowly satiated.

She took the drink absently from the still-ferociously-grinning girl behind the counter, and tipped her head to examine Jeremy minutely, in a way she never had. Having been taught from childhood that it was rude to glance at a person’s face for any length of time, she now indulged in the slightly naughty feeling that downright staring invoked in her. She was young enough that disobeying her parents’ instruction felt liberating; she hurt enough in certain places that she was quite ready to try and offend any males that crossed her path.

Jeremy didn’t seem to mind. There in the coffee shop, he returned her gaze steadily, eyes searching her face even as her eyes sought the secrets in his. His gaze was far more placid than hers, but covered ground so slowly and intimately that eventually, she blushed.

“We didn’t even say hello,” he said, mildly.

“I wasn’t in the mood for hello,” she answered.

His eyes returned to searching her, methodically, a purpose now in his dark gaze, as he picked up indefinable signs of something different in the way she was willing to look straight at him, the way she breathed— deliberately— the way she stood. One hand darted out to flick her hair away from her face, the touch of his fingers acid on her skin, and she ducked; not quickly enough to hide the red mark there from his quick perception.

“You’ve had an encounter, I see.”

Her eyes darted nervously from side to side as she wondered why she’d started this game in the middle of a crowded shop. They’d been attracting attention from the beginning, people were staring, some in the middle of chewing whatever half-plastic pastry they’d been conned into buying, so their mouths moved slowly and rhythmically and they looked like a herd of cattle, peacefully chewing their cud and staring at a very surprising bush in their midst. What were they doing here? was the question. Were they hired entertainment? Were they going to be here every Wednesday and ask for tips afterwards? Were they going to have complete nervous breakdowns in public? It was true that Jeremy’s gaze was intense, and that Ani looked frightened and vulnerable now in a very unusual way, and that they’d been steadily drawing closer to each other since the whole thing started— but was it really that noticeable? Or was she just imagining things?

She was imagining things, and the things she was imagining brought on another blush, one that originated slightly below her hips. When they were young, Jeremy had made a bid for her. A terrible way of putting it, but a truthful one. He’d taken her hand, and put his lips to her chin, and in between kisses had asked her how she wanted it. A polite but firm no had been in order; he, however, had received an impolite and shaky swearing session, and two hands placed on his shoulder with undeniable force, shoving him away. She was waiting, she told him.

Waiting for what, he’d asked. For the right one? Or until she got bored enough, in this small town, to look for entertainment of a different sort?

She’d never been one of his girlfriends; that was a privilege she hadn’t wanted. She was eyeing him now, though, and realizing slowly that, suddenly, she was fair game. His eyes met hers again, and watched as she was born backwards by his gaze, till she sagged slightly against the countertop behind her. Her hands went back automatically, to catch her should she fall, and the tip jar rattled alarmingly, earning an irate, “Hey!” from the still-grinning girl behind it, who was counting on those tips to help her pay her Blockbuster bill. Ani’s left hand tripped back out in front of her, held up between her and Jeremy, a silent sign to wait. To hold off. To hold back.

“Lets step outside,” he invited.

It was a sort of agreement, implicit in her movements as she preceded him out the door, and led him around the corner into an alley, and walked on behind a pile of cardboard boxes, their labels reading Caution like an unheeded warning.

She braced herself against the wall, and turned to face him.

“You’re right.”

“I can tell.” He was amused.

“I lost it,” she said, and shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t remotely feel. “I lost it, and I was out looking for it, that’s all.”

“Are we talking,” he said slowly, “about some sort of pet? Because I can’t help you there.”

She smiled, and he smiled back crookedly, and for a moment the placidity of his face was disturbed by a small lick of flame. That was it, then, what women found so alluring? The warmth of desire? Did he make them feel beautiful? Like a princess, like a queen? She found herself to be insatiably curious. She took his hand, and began to count the beats of his pulse, in his wrist.

Steady. Predictable.

She raised it to her face, and put her lips upon it, and counted the thrumming that echoed back through her mind.

Like a rock.

Disappointed, she dropped it, and eyed him once more. He grinned, helplessly.

“Honey, I’ve seen a lot in my time. There’s never been a girl who could get to me in the first act. It takes at least three scene changes and an intermission.”

She was more than disappointed now; she was just plain disgusted. She would have backed away, but she was already against the wall; so she tried to shove past him, daggering him with a glare, but a simple raising of his hand, the slight brush of his fingers on her jawline, moved her back in his range. The helpless grin was a little infuriating, now, but she burned so hard that she was incapable of movement anywhere but in his direction.

“He hurt you?” Jeremy asked.

Ani nodded.

The light touch of his fingers on her cheek swept down her jaw, over the round of her throat, slipped along her shoulder with a thumb on her collarbone, then dipped below, sliding inexorably down, so slow that she shivered, till at last he rested his hand on her waist. He drew her towards him.

She opened her mouth to tell him how long she had waited, how long it had been since she discovered her initial “No” had been the wrong reaction, and he caught her then; lips met and tongues tangled. Five seconds into it she realized one of the major problems with Angelo— apart from his ridiculous name— was that he hadn’t kissed her. Not once. The whole time. Ever.

It wasn’t over yet, and she missed it already, that first strange sweetness, that invading warmth. She moved closer on her own; his hand had left her waist to slide down around the curve of her hip, not pulling her towards him, just guiding her own instinctive reaction, shepherding and sheltering her body till it was where it belonged. She slipped her hands, palms flat, up over his chest, felt his heart underneath his shirt and hoped for it to quicken; it didn’t, as far as she could tell, but she wasn’t daunted by this. Her fingers dug softly into the sunken spot just behind and below his earlobes, then slid upwards, urging him closer, calling him harder. He obliged; she couldn’t see him— her eyes were shut— but he definitely had an amused taste.

This what you waited for?

You put this off? And for what? Not out of any sense of virtue, for you lost that long ago. What exactly where you thinking, woman? To be bruised so, and used so. To be held up as a mirror for a man’s own pleasure at his so-called skill, to just be there so he could look at your face and smile smugly and say that he gave you the best night of your life. When here was Jeremy, and for once there was a man who wasn’t all about himself. There was a give and take to everything; Jeremy had it in him to give, and give, and give.

He gave her a push between the legs, and she almost jumped in surprise at the suddenness of it; but it was just his leg. It slid between hers, parting them, and guided her backwards against the wall. He was saying, it seemed, that she would need the support. She would need something solid to hold on to. A tingle of a thrill ran through her; she tipped her head backwards and brought up her chin and opened her mouth wider, trying to open everything.

They were completely silent.

Her hands left his thick dark hair, stretched back to try and encompass the wall, spread-eagled. Then, there was the dry skritch of her nails on the brick. His hands slid lower, gathered her up and pulled her upwards, defying gravity. Teaching her to leave the earth, to learn to fly.

She could have freed her mouth to pant theatrically, like they did in the movies, and say breathlessly, “Take me to heaven and back!” But who would want to go to heaven and then have to turn around and leave again? What sense did that make?

Take me to heaven and then we’ll have a picnic!

She didn’t have it in her to be facetious; she certainly didn’t have it in her to pull away. In the back of her mind was the consciousness that they were in plain view of anyone who cared to walk by. Anyone. Senior citizens, who would be scandalized. Little kids, who would be very curious and then very disturbed. Her mother. This was not a good time to think about her mother. She focused on his heartbeat instead.

Steady as a rock. Nothing there.

She resisted the urge to poke his skin, see if there was metal underneath; if he was some sort of mindless automaton sent to take her friend’s place, if perhaps it wasn’t a heartbeat she heard at all, but something electric and perfectly regulated.

Electric.

Her back arched. He’d used his teeth that time. She didn’t know you were supposed to use your teeth. Movements of his hands; very distracting; she wasn’t aware of when her feet touched the ground again. He hadn’t let go; he had her in his hands. She pushed forward as violently as she could. She couldn’t budge him. He didn’t take a step back, didn’t give a single inch. She was trapped between two brick walls, one of which breathed, one of which didn’t, neither of which was being particularly forgiving.

I’ve got bruises on my bruises. Why doesn’t he hurry up?

Why is he—

His hands now slid up into the hem of her t-shirt, and she wished fervently that she’d worn her good underwear. Of course, that was in the wash after yesterday. Too late now, and the clothes weren’t the point, anyway, were they? Weren’t they just trappings?

Trappings. Ow. God. Thumbnail. Crescent-shaped dips in my skin. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

She bit his lip, in a sort of childish retaliation, and drew the first sound from him; a chuckle, deep in the back of his throat. Was she meant to be encouraged by that? She hadn’t imagined that passion sounded like chuckling. What did giggling mean? That he was aroused, or that he was ticklish? In the throes of extreme passion, what value did a good belly laugh hold?

How long is he— going to take, I mean— how long is he going to take—

His touch was softer now, corresponding with the skin he found, and his lips were gentle. It felt like he was backing down, and she’d never known him to back down from anything. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t a challenge? Perhaps because she’d asked him for this, even if it was without words? No, but certainly, he was slowing, he was withdrawing, he was escaping.

He parted from her, and disentangled his hands from her shirt to smooth the backs of his fingers against her cheeks.

“Do you know,” he said, “what I—”

His voice broke. She reached up to wrap her hands around his, urge them back downwards a little, and then stopped when she felt the frantic beating of his pulse, as though his heart were trying to get out.

She opened her eyes, and he was somber, sober, down and distraught. She released his wrist and combed her fingers through his hair.

“How long is it?”

He could have made a dirty joke.

He said, “All my life. All my life, I think— I think, Ani. I don’t know.”

“But all those others.”

“I know.”

“All those others.”

“I know.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, drew a shaky breath, the fragrance of her hair. “And you only had Angelo.”

This struck her as funny, and she smothered a laugh against his chest, leaning her cheek there and feeling, once more, the beat of his heart straight through to resound in her mind. The fast, fast pulse. So she was a challenge, after all; it was difficult to pretend that it was pleasure as usual, when you were trying to lie to the one you loved. It was difficult to hold back, but he’d done so. He realized it now, was willing to admit what he’d had in the back of his mind for his entire life: he loved her. He couldn’t do this to her, not like this, when he loved her.

She whispered misbegotten words against his shirt, to his heart.

“And all I wanted was a good shag.”