On an Edge of Glass

ask him which side of the political arena he’s on, he shrugs noncommittally, and says that it depends on who’s cutting the check.
    Evan l ikes to lean back in his chair while he talks.
    H e uses words like particularly and diction and amplify .
    He played lacrosse in high school and spent a semester abroad in Spain his sophomore year. 
    Like me, he has no brothers and sisters.
    He wears a wristwatch.   A gold one.
    His face is open and he smiles easily, showing off a mouthful of perfect white teeth.  So perfect, that as dinner progresses, I start to wonder obsessively if he’s had any cosmetic dental work done.
    “That’s interesting,” he says.  We’ve been talking about our classes.  Interesting is hardly the word that I would use to describe the conversation.  So far he’s asked about law school and my parents—though he already seems to know quite a bit about them. 
    I clumsily stab my meal with chopsticks.  We’re at a pan-asian restaurant that Evan’s fraternity brother recommended.  “So… uhhhh… what do your parent’s do?” 
    He shifts.   His voice changes.  It gets deeper, more adult.  “My father is a financial advisor with Bergen and Stone.  Have you heard of them?”
    I shake my head.  “No.”
    Evan dismissively shrugs.  “Oh, they’re a fairly prestigious firm out of Chicago, so I thought maybe you would have.”  He’s still using the new voice.  “My mother is a dentist.”
    Ahhhh.  So that explains the teeth.
    Evan must misinterpret my expression because he arches one eyebrow and says quickly, “She runs a very large practice.  It’s the best and most lucrative in our area.”
                  Okaaaay….
                  I swallow my food.  “That’s great.  I’ve actually been admiring how straight and white your teeth are all night.”
                  Evan barks a laugh and then runs his index finger quickly back and forth over his front teeth.  He leans back in his chair and begins to tell me all the places that he’d like to travel to.  He really does like to hear himself talk.
                  I’m hollow.  Full of echoes.  Floating.  Fragmented.  Outside my skin.  All the pieces of me drifting lazily over the table. 
    Evan orders dessert and keeps talking.  He doesn’ t see that I’m elsewhere.  He reaches over and brushes the fingers of my right hand and smiles. 
                  Despite how hard I try to push them away, I can’t keep my thoughts of Ben at bay.  They fill me with weightless air—suspend me—but Evan still hasn’t noticed.  He continues the conversation with himself.  He’s good at it.  I suppose that’s why he wants to go into politics.
    He drives me home and he opens the car door for me and walks beside me up the steps.  His hand is resting on the small of my back.  I can tell that he wants me to invite him inside.  I can see it in the way that he’s standing—half against me, half away—the warmth from his body tugging at my skin.  He smells musky—like the expensive cologne that my dad wears. 
    He touches my hand .  His mouth parts and his tongue darts across his bottom lip.  I think about how easy it will be.  How I can fall into those green eyes and maybe I’ll find an endless forest to get lost in, or a patch of stars, or maybe nothing at all.  
                  I want easy.  I want to blot everything and everyone out.  I want this to be over.  I want Evan to kiss away the memories of dust and make me forget.  I’m going for a crash landing.  I’m going for oblivion. 
    So, when he leans in, I let him.
                  I let him lift my chin and I let him cover my mouth with his.  I let him run his hand down my side to the indentation of my waist.  I let him pull my tongue into his mouth and reach his other arm around my back and fondle my bare skin. 
    I try to fall—to keep my eyes closed and surrender to the sensation.  I try to lose myself to the feel of him. 
    I pull him toward me .  I push my fingers into his hair.  He has good hair I think.  His mouth is nicely formed.  He’s smart and driven, and my parents would approve.  
    I s queeze my eyes tighter.  I take in a strained breath through my nose.  I open up my mouth a little wider.  But, the taste is bitter and we never do make it through the front door.
     
     
    By the time I’ve washed the makeup off my face and have