He Answers

The air is thick with promise as he caresses her hand. The semi-fogged windows on his side distort the headlights of the occasional passing car. Her side is completely fogged.

“Will it fuck you up?” she says.

He answers with his hand, inching closer to her lap, fingers wiggling.

She stretches over the console, notices the armrests already out of the way and wonders if they were this way when he picked her up. Leaning into his chest, she reaches over and strokes him.

“Will it fuck you up?” she says again, his neck warm against her lips. When he doesn’t answer, she pulls back and looks into his very dark, very large pupils.

He answers with his mouth on hers. The familiar taste of cigarette smoke hooks her stomach and pulls it toward her chest. His tongue, gentle at first, grows bolder. When they part, her breath is shallow, heavy and her cheeks red. She eases her leather jacket off then twists in her seat and faces him.

Silence circles them and she waits, hoping. Her gut tells her it’s different this time, better, that yesterday’s conversation opened the murky curtain that hung between them, that he believes in their bond, too.

He reaches for her belt, lets his fingers dip over the waist of her black corduroys and they rest inside, against her skin. She notices the hair on the outside edge of his hand is baby fine and blonde. She raises her eyes to his and he moves to her zipper, fiddles with it.

She grabs his hand, stopping him. “Will it fuck you up?” Softer this time.

He releases her waist, unzips his pants and gently guides her mouth to his lap. From behind, he slips a finger into her and electric warmth explodes through her. After a moment, she pushes up so that they’re nose to nose. He kisses her—tender kisses that make her melt.

She ignores the awkward angle created by the console as she rubs up against him, like a cat, nuzzling with her cheeks, her lips, trying to meld into him. The thrill of newfound trust dances through her veins.

“I want to fuck you,” she whispers between a flurry of gentle kisses.

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh. Now.”

With his forearm he nudges her shoulders backward through the opening between the seats. His hand slips beneath her panties. She’s more than ready for him as he flicks his finger around inside her. She arches upward, throws her head back, thrusts her pelvis up as though trying to swallow his arm whole.

He withdraws his hand when her grunts die down. She knows her face is flushed, waits a moment for the panting to subside, then drapes herself over him. She resists the urge to yank her sweater off.

“Did you come?” he says softly.

She nods.

“Huh, baby?” In her ear, urgent. “Did you come?”

“Yes,” she lies. Never with him, but it’s the intimacy she craves.

“Was it good?”

She plunges her tongue into his mouth. “I want to fuck you.” Her voice is throaty, thick. “Sit on you. Right here. Now.” She slides over to her seat, her eyes locked onto his, waiting. When he doesn’t respond, she leans back and, keeping her eyes glued to his face, unties her boots. She makes herself slow down, knowing he likes it when she takes control. As she kicks the second one off, he puts his hand on her knee. She stops, thumbs hooked at the sides of her pants. She knows even as she wonders at the cannon ball suddenly ripping through her gut.

“I’m sorry.”

She can’t find her voice.

“I wish I could say it wouldn’t fuck me up, but I haven’t figured out how to do it like you. I can’t keep this, you and me, separate from my family.”

She stares at the windshield, through a small patch of semi-transparent glass on his side, at the highway traffic.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. The pain in his voice makes her look at him.

He reaches up, wipes her tears away. “I value our friendship too much to risk it. Being able to pick up the phone, no matter the time or place, knowing I can talk to you about anything.” She turns away, wondering what the fuck he’s talking about, wondering how he can’t see that this will make it even better.

She drops her chin to her chest, lets the tears fall. He draws her close and holds her, then hands her a Kleenex and she wonders if he’s planned it this way. She pulls away, leans back in her seat, not understanding how it got so fucked up. The quiet is loud, surreal.

“I remember the first time,” he says, “in San Jose. I remember pulling your jeans down. You had your eyes closed but smiled when I pushed your underwear back up. Such colorful underwear.” He stops, but she remains silent. “And your perfume. No matter where I am—in the mall or walking down the street—I automatically turn around when I smell it, looking for you.”

She wonders why he’s waited five years to reveal this, to tell her that it meant something to him. She wants to ask about the last time, two years ago, but doesn’t trust herself.

“I want to go,” she says.

The ride back to her car is strained. She feels his glances at her every couple of minutes but she looks straight ahead. She marvels at how it felt so different this time, at how easily she lowered her guard in response to his admitted feelings for her.

He pulls up behind her car. She wants it to end differently, wants him to tell her he’s changed his mind. She looks at him, then turns away and opens the door. If she hurries, she can get dinner on the table before her husband gets home.