Good Girls

We sit down on the porch steps. He pulls out his cell phone, flicks it open, and shows me the screen saver. It’s me in my wedding dress. The message I’d sent him with the picture said: “No, it’s not a proposal, just an apology. I’m sorry for everything. I suck (and not in the good way).”

But I put my arms around him and hugged him, because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept kissing me, bending my leg and curling one arm under my knee, and sliding his other arm around my shoulders. I didn’t understand what he was doing, but I let him do it. Maybe he saw it in a movie and thought it would be fun, or maybe this was how everyone did it—what did I know? I tried to focus on the kissing part, though he was sort of spacing out on that end. His movements

With his teeth, he ripped open the package, and his hands disappeared under the blankets. Then he rolled on top of me, an elbow on either side of my face. He kissed me as he pressed against me, poking me with his spongy self, now rubber-coated. I thought about the spam I always got in my e-mail box—“BE A LOVE HAMMER ALL NIGHT LONG!” I wasn’t sure if he and his love hammer would ever find their way inside, so I put my hand down to help him. I felt a surge and a sharp, stinging pain.