“Yeah, I’m just
gonna go home,” slinking down the splintered staircase, “I got up super
early,” shrugging, “I’ll see you later though.”
Belt clinks in sync
with the first ring, no answer. No matter, pull up to his house, put it
in park, confront the steering wheel with questions of self-worth. Check
the hair flip and cross the threshold.
Greeted with facetious slurs from his roommates and, “there’s beer in the fridge,” from him.
I pull up my own chair, grab my own beer, and act fascinated with the dog, taking my place uninvited at the table.
This is the best
thing about college, having to prove yourself with knowledge of poker,
or star wars, or by how many spliffs you can weather. All the while
comprehending beyond reproach the innate buffoonery of your company,
only to be continually demeaned because you have a vagina. Why is the
joke always on us ladies?
No eye contact is
made. Bets are placed. Drugs are passed, bottles tapped. I make sardonic
quips to his roommates’ discourse. Akin to the variable interval
schedule, he reinforces my flutter with an occasional smirk.
Eventually, he grabs
my face, throws me on the bed. I play my part, dig nails into his back,
gasp when he spanks me on top and leave his post-gasm flightiness at
rest. Dutifully, I slide my tights back up around hips, grown mushy with
beer and midterms, and nod to his vain manifesto.
“I’ll hit you up in
the morning for breakfast,” as he cocoons himself in a rank
down-comforter. I pause before a twist of the handle and whisper,
“No you won’t.”
The doorjamb scoffs behind me in futile force.
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