“You know, I think sex is the only thing we have in common,” I said.
He leaned over the side of the bed to grab something from his pants. He pulled out a bag of weed and started to roll a joint.
“We both like Rushmore,” he said.
The room was silent for a few minutes.
“So what happens when we can no longer use Max Fischer as an excuse for this ‘relationship’? ”
He lit the joint and very coolly responded, “can’t we just enjoy each other?”
I sank further into the bed and faced the other way.
The room was dark, and suddenly cold. The air smelled like incense and skank weed. I pulled the sheets closer to my body. I stared at the midnight wall and felt my heart racing. He always made my stomach hurt.
God, I really have to fart.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
Suddenly, his body was over me like a dark cloud. I watched the shape of his mouth become hostile.
“I don’t like those kind of questions.”
He pulled me closer and said nothing. I barely had to move, while he already knew what to do.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the couch watching him tie his shoes. He was bent over with his back to me as he confessed that he thinks he likes me.
“I think I like you.” What the fuck does that mean?
“Oh yeah? ” I said.
He got up quickly from the couch, ignoring what he had just said. He unlocked the door and gave me a half hug.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, walking down my apartment stairs.