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backdrifterShe likes to pull on his chest hair sometimes, just for the sound he makes when she does. It's not that he has a lot of chest hair, or even a lot of chest. Chicken-boy.
When Rajit sleeps next to her post-sex, she can see in his dark face, and in the way he reaches out toward her in his last conscious moments, that he loves her. It's terminal. In daylight hours he likes to hold her hand, to touch her hair, little touches like that. It's obvious, her friends tell her. She wishes they could tell that little part in the core of her being that doesn't believe it.
It's not that she's dumb, or that she has low self-esteem, or at least she doesn't think she does. If she does, it'll take a shrink to convince her of it. Body issues have nothing to do with confidence, she thinks. But even in the heat of the moment, when he thrusts into her the hardest, big bony hands clutching her too-soft hips, she is almost as vividly aware of her thunder thighs crushing his bird body as she is of the way his face contorts.
He buys her little gifts just because he knows she'll like them; she likes everything to do with music notes, so he brings her any trinket with a treble clef on it. It has nothing to do with winning her over; she wants to love him back. He is so very, very sweet. And so very fragile.
These things only make her feel worse, then, when she fantasizes about the barista at the cafe two blocks from Rajit's apartment. The barista's name is Alan, and he is as surly as he is wide-shouldered and strong-armed. Alan's hands are big, too, but they're thick and ropy next to the spiders at the end of Rajit's arms. She dreams, full of guilt, of Alan pinning her—to the wall, to the bed, to the counter where they make mochaccinos, it doesn't matter—one-handedly by her wrists.
She feels awful about the way she thinks of Alan fucking her, rough and unrelenting, the exact opposite of sweet Rajit. He is an animal; Alan the animal. When the fantasy passes and she lays her head on Rajit's bony lap, his thumb absently stroking her fat hips, she knows Alan is a beast unsuited to a civil relationship, and she likes to tell herself it makes no sense to think of him that way. But she knows that Alan the animal would make her feel dainty and small, make her feel not like an animal.
When Rajit sleeps next to her post-sex, she can see in his dark face, and in the way he reaches out toward her in his last conscious moments, that he loves her. It's terminal. In daylight hours he likes to hold her hand, to touch her hair, little touches like that. It's obvious, her friends tell her. She wishes they could tell that little part in the core of her being that doesn't believe it.
It's not that she's dumb, or that she has low self-esteem, or at least she doesn't think she does. If she does, it'll take a shrink to convince her of it. Body issues have nothing to do with confidence, she thinks. But even in the heat of the moment, when he thrusts into her the hardest, big bony hands clutching her too-soft hips, she is almost as vividly aware of her thunder thighs crushing his bird body as she is of the way his face contorts.
He buys her little gifts just because he knows she'll like them; she likes everything to do with music notes, so he brings her any trinket with a treble clef on it. It has nothing to do with winning her over; she wants to love him back. He is so very, very sweet. And so very fragile.
These things only make her feel worse, then, when she fantasizes about the barista at the cafe two blocks from Rajit's apartment. The barista's name is Alan, and he is as surly as he is wide-shouldered and strong-armed. Alan's hands are big, too, but they're thick and ropy next to the spiders at the end of Rajit's arms. She dreams, full of guilt, of Alan pinning her—to the wall, to the bed, to the counter where they make mochaccinos, it doesn't matter—one-handedly by her wrists.
She feels awful about the way she thinks of Alan fucking her, rough and unrelenting, the exact opposite of sweet Rajit. He is an animal; Alan the animal. When the fantasy passes and she lays her head on Rajit's bony lap, his thumb absently stroking her fat hips, she knows Alan is a beast unsuited to a civil relationship, and she likes to tell herself it makes no sense to think of him that way. But she knows that Alan the animal would make her feel dainty and small, make her feel not like an animal.