"You're like an oyster hoarding its pearl, hiding it from daylight," he says, brushing his thumb against my cheek.
I'm sprawled on top of him. The edges of his twin bed cradle us while the persistent opening and closing of dorm room doors echoes in the cinder block hallway.
His hand presses hot against my spine, and the soreness I carry in my lower back loosens like a fist releasing a clench.
I relax in his arms, breathe in his spicy scent. When our mouths collide, an instant heat rushes my system like a wild current. We pant into each other, until I'm dizzy with desire. And like the moments leading up to sleep, when it feels like I might fall through the mattress, fear of the abyss jolts me like an electrical current.
"Don't do that," he whispers against my lips. "Stay."
But all I can hear is my grandmother's voice. Why buy the cow if the milk is free?
Nerves overtake me, and I laugh to hide my anxiety.
"Stay." The tenderness in his plea cuts me. Could he need me as much as I'm afraid to want him?
"You're not giving me much choice, holding me in place…" I laugh again and he winces.
He slides his hand off my back and raises both arms over his head as if to say don't shoot. Locking thumbs, he wiggles his fingers at me.
I could slap him or tickle him, and he wouldn't be able to stop me.
"You're free to do whatever you want," he says. "What do you want?"
The dryness in my mouth makes it impossible for me to make a sound. Besides, what would I say?
His eyebrows arch together. He doesn't understand my hesitation, or he's waiting for an answer. It doesn't matter which. We carry the same confusion.
His hands remain over his head. Slowly he dips his chin, leading my eyes to follow his. And that's when I realize my arms drape around his neck. Each hand clutches the opposite wrist. I cling to him.
What my mind is terrified to indulge, my body isn't afraid to choose. Only in my head do I hear the messages of judgment and shame from my childhood. My body is oblivious to these complications. My body is honest.
I place my hand on his cheek; his eyebrows form an upside-down V. This time he doesn't ask. He knows the answer.
Title image "Behind the Cinder Blocks" Copyright © The Summerset Review 2023.
