He hasn’t heard a thing since she sent a text about getting drinks with a classmate at 6:36pm. It's 2:23am. Sitting in their living room, he drinks a Zin spiked with cinnamon whiskey. He’s remembering his girlfriend, dressed in a flattering, low-cut dress with dark stockings. And that image is making him hard, then lonely. He imagines her touching some guy’s knee while she talks about Dalí, flirting like she does—why hasn’t she responded? She always has her phone, checking pokes and pings, mashing away texts in each available silence. He’s often seen her rejecting calls, making some quiet laugh as if to say Oops. She’s doing that right now, he imagines, sitting with that tattooed fucker from Photography, declining his calls with a laugh. Oops! Roaming the room, he finds himself expecting her with new found urgency, sweating as he adds whiskey to his half-empty glass. It’s nearly three when brakes squeal outside the house. The car door slams, and he’s at his feet, moving to greet her. How magnificent: a chance to confront everything. Their bodies will be exposed in the cold—he’ll sweat and shake her, and then she’ll understand.
Corrinne Clegg Hales