She’s pushed up against me. She smells like fresh cigarettes and flowers from a bottle. She feels good, soft, and I’ve never tasted anyone like her. I’ve known her longer than I’ve known my girlfriend and somehow this keeps me from feeling guilty as we stuff ourselves into the back corner of the bar. Her hands are much smaller than mine, one of them is pushing its fingers into my palm and the other is traveling up and down my thigh. I’m trying to control the sounds I’m making, but I figure, fuck it, I’m making out with some other girl in a bar, why bother with discretion now? Her name is Angela, and she wants to read books for a living. I almost start laughing out loud when I think this. She is everything I’m supposed to want. The type of person that I am should be with the type of person that she is. The world is just so simple sometimes.
We pull away from each other, as though we’ve both just realized that we were kissing instead of standing next to each other, and she says sweetly, “Hi.” She’s probably seen that in a movie and thinks that’s what you’re supposed to do in moments like this. She’s much younger than I am; I have these condescending thoughts about her every now and then. It makes me feel older in a good way, so I indulge.
“Hi,” I say back, humoring her. I laugh, so she laughs and reaches her face up to kiss me again. I pull back, toying with her, and she reaches her little hand behind my head to pull me toward her. I can feel her smiling when we kiss again.
Neither of us are that drunk, so it can’t be blamed on that. I’m attracted to most attractive women, so it’s not that I have pent up attraction to her that is all of a sudden coming to fruition. Honestly, I have no reasons why this is happening, I can’t even pinpoint when it started, the original moment of contact between our lips, nothing. I feel like one moment we were not doing this and the next we were.
“Do you want to get out of here pretty soon?” she whispers into my neck. I’m going to start keeping count of the movie lines that she says. It’ll be cute until it’s annoying.
“Yes,” I say to her, breathing hard into her hair.
“I live right up the street,” she says as though she’s testing me, like I’m a stray dog that she’s trying to lure home.
“Well, I would love a tour if you’re offering.”
She goes to the bathroom first, probably to assess what the past half hour has done to her make up and hair, which isn’t much from what I can tell. I go out front to wait for her, my jacket slung over my arm because it isn’t as cold out as I anticipated. She comes out, noticeably refreshed, lip balm reapplied. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are red; she looks great and I’m giddy at the thought of going to her apartment. She holds her arms down by her sides, letting her hands bump into mine every once in a while until I take it from her and squeeze it. She likes this and for the moment, so do I.
In the near future both she and my girlfriend will call me a son-of-a-bitch. I will not agree until years later.