Home Alone

I'm at home alone on Friday afternoon when my phone rings again. I haven't heard from him since he called to tell me on Wednesday night that he couldn't meet me at Applebee's.

“I’m dripping wet right now,” I tell him.

“Really? Dripping wet?”

“Yeah...I’m starting to think it’s like some kind of Pavlovian response to hearing your voice.” I can sense his smile on the other end of the line.

“Pretty soon, you’ll start moaning as soon as your phone rings,” he teases.

The conversation turns serious as he starts to describe the way he would touch me if he were with me right now. “I’d kiss your lips long and hard...lick your neck...kiss your shoulders…”

Is it possible to be this wet? My panties are sticking to me.

We start reminiscing about the sex we had when we were together. I tell him that I can close my eyes and picture being in his bedroom again, leaning on his bureau and looking directly into the mirror, him behind me, both of us naked, his right hand cupping my bare breast, his left hand grasping my left hip as he expertly thrusts into me. My lips part slightly in a soft moan when he brushes my hair to one side and gently bites my neck.

His breathing becomes heavy and fast as I describe the scene to him. He tells me huskily that he may just have to take care of himself in the bathroom at work when we get off the phone. I myself feel a dull, frustrated ache between my legs and wonder if and when we will ever have the right opportunity to reenact those times.

"We had a pretty good thing, you and I," he says.

"Yeah," I agree.

"What happened to us?"

"Don't know." Actually, I know exactly what went wrong: he had a serious drug problem and I had reached the very end of my rope with him. I started to hate the person I had become when I was with him—distrusting, resentful, nagging. But I don't want to break the spell and remind him of all this, so instead I just continue, "We were kids. Too young."

"Yeah. And dumb," he adds. "What were we thinking? What was I thinking?"

I keep silent for a moment, but then the words come pouring out of me as though I have no control over them. "I will never forget the first time I saw you. Never in a million years. I'll never forget sitting out on the loading dock of the restaurant, in the middle of my shift, having a cigarette, and seeing you walk past with your headphones on. I don't think anything unusual happened just then—you looked over at me, I waved to you, and you waved back and kept on walking—but it was one of those life-altering moments for me. I felt like I had been struck by lightning at that very instant. I just knew.”