Wander, lust.

I wasn’t feeling so good at all that day and figured, what the hell, let’s just see what happens if I do it. And so, there I went and did it.

“What are you doing exactly?” she said.
“I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“What?”
“Well, I wanted to do it, too, don’t get me wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted to do it,” I explained, “and also I was curious to see what you’d do. After I did it, obviously.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”

My hand, by the way, was still on her thigh. I couldn’t believe it. Countless times I’d been on the subway like this, moving through tunnels like this, seated next to a woman like her: so wretchedly beautiful I assumed, frankly, that she could grind all of my life’s problems (and there were many) into a fine, invisible powder. And every time, sitting there, I had the same simple thought: If only you knew me, really knew me, the kind of person I am. Then you’d let me touch your thigh. And everything would be at least decent.

She said, “I can’t believe you actually did that.”
“Neither can I.”
“But you really did. You still are.”
“Are you upset?”
“I should be.”
“But you’re not?”
“I’m upset with myself, for not being upset enough,” she said. “I mean, I really should be.”
“But my hand on your thigh, this you’re okay with?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t look all that upset. I’d remove it otherwise.”
She said, “You don’t even know what I look like when I’m upset.”

That killed me.


borrowed from Black Book
Wander, lust. [excerpt]
David Amsden