Wish You Were Here

Chapter 8

"What did you do before you had this life?" he asks. "Were you going to college?"

In post-coitus bliss you lay in bed together in his hotel room, his first night back in New York. You don't usually talk after sex like this, but tonight he's peppering you with questions. You tell yourself he's just adjusting to the time difference. That you should have fucked harder so he felt tired. The alternative – that he likes you too much to fall asleep – is too much to bear.

"I used to sell pajamas," you tell him.

"What?" He starts laughing. "That's so random. Why pajamas?"

You shrug. "All retail is equally bad for the soul. But I was in high school. I needed a job."

"What sort of pajamas, though?"

"All sorts of fabrics and styles. Did you ever have a real job?"

"A real job?" he repeats, his voice cracking. "I have a real job, thank you very much."

"You know what I mean."

He thinks about it for a while. "Starbucks. Cliché, I know, but it's true. And Tesco, many many moons ago, when I was in school." You yawn and stretch, and the sheet falls a little. "I love that you're always so comfortable around me," he comments, pulling the sheet all the way down.

"Hey, cold!" you cry, trying to grab it back.

"But look how beautiful you are."

You press against him for warmth. "You've seen me from every angle," you say, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists when he says things like that. "There's nothing to hide."

"But even before," he says, giving you the sheet back, "the first time. You were fine with me once you got over your nerves."

"I guess I don't see any reason to be nervous if you're still here," you say. "I like being naked with you."

He puts a hand on your thigh. "I like it, too," he says.

"How did you get so good at this, anyway?"

"Good at what?"

You blink at him, both of you still nude and pressed up against each other. "At sex."

"Oh." He doesn't acknowledge the compliment, actually just answers the question. "I guess I've just had a lot of bad sex." And then laughs a little at how ridiculous a comment that is. "I mean, not with you," he adds quickly. "Just generally have been with people who weren't quite on the same page I was. Maybe left parties with people who were there for the wrong reasons. I don't know. You get what you give, and you learn from your mistakes."

"Mmm." You have certainly learned from yours.

His hand slides a little higher up your thigh. "Having said that, I also think you and I are just a really good match for each other in this realm, you know? We like similar... things. Have a similar drive."

"Yeah," you agree. He's right, that not all chemistry can be practiced and earned, that on some level the two of you are exactly what each other needs in bed. There's something kind of ironic and rotten about it, with how fundamentally incompatible you are in other ways. But maybe that's part of the reason you're so attracted to each other: that it's exactly the opposite of what you should be doing, right down to every last detail. He should be with someone much older than you, comfortable with fame and busy with her own career in the public eye. And then a thought occurs to you. "Am I the only one you've been with who hasn't had plastic surgery?"

He thinks about it. "The only one for a while, yeah. I'm not that big a fan of it, really – not the big Kardashian booty thing. But I don't mind it when it's subtle."