Two miles only takes two minutes when there’s no traffic, and two
minutes isn’t all that long, but it sure does feel like an eternity when you’re
spending it in a truck with a girl you almost fucked. And it wouldn’t have
been a good fuck. It most certainly would have been a quick, sloppy,
selfish, couldn’t-have-been-good-for-her fuck.
I want to apologize, but I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing for, and I
don’t want her to think I regret it. The only thing I regret is that I’m taking
her home and not to my house.
“I live there,” she says, pointing at Paradise Apartments.
I don’t come to this part of town very often. It’s in the opposite
direction of my house, so I rarely drive down this road. I honestly thought
they condemned this place.
I pull into the parking lot, and I intend to kill the engine and open her
door for her, but she’s already out of the truck before I even get it turned
off.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says. “And . . . for the coffee.” She closes
the door and spins around like that’s how we’re supposed to part.
I open my door. “Hey. Wait.”
She pauses but waits to turn around until I’ve reached her. She’s
hugging herself, chewing on her lip, scratching nervously at her arm. She
looks up at me. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . I know what that was.” She waves a hand at my truck.
“You don’t have to ask for my number, I don’t even have one.”
How does she know what that was?
I don’t know what that was. My
mind is still trying to process it. Maybe I should ask her.
“What was that?
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