Member-only story
MEMOIR
This Was Never About Sex
The space between wanting and being wanted
The denim cuts into the crease of my hips as I lean over the table. My thumb slides against the smooth wood rail. I line up the shot, slow, deliberate, like I’m not aware of the man standing behind me, watching.
I am.
The cue ball claps the seven. It sinks. I don’t smile.
Ice sweats down the side of my glass. Sex on the Beach. Too sweet, but it goes down easy and keeps my hands busy. I watch the beads of condensation track down my knuckles. A man across the bar raises his chin. I look away too fast.
The bass from the speakers rumbles in my ribs. Everything smells like vodka and cologne, like sweat under deodorant, like air that’s been breathed too many times by men who don’t want to go home alone.
Another shot. I miss on purpose.
He steps closer.
It’s not flirting exactly. It’s math. It’s gravity. It’s how long his hand lingers on my shoulder as he walks by. It’s the way I pretend not to notice, even though I feel the heat of his palm long after it’s gone.
I sip again. Lick the salt from my lip. The room spins, just a little.
