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: : : AND SO THEY GO BACK to his place, and they sit on the couch for a bit, drinking wine, chatting awkwardly, and then there's this quiet awkward moment, Julius stops saying anything and instead he looks down at some invisible flaw in the rim of his glass, he runs his finger over it, again and again. Lydia recognizes this as the moment where one trajectory of the evening ends. This is the moment, therefore, where she could reasonably say I think I'm going to head home, thanks for the nice evening. If she gave him a little kiss at the door, she'd be keeping her options open, she could take more time to decide just what it is that she wants to do. But she came here because she is already decided. Decided enough, anyway. So she takes his chin in her hand and says here and kisses him.
They end up in the bedroom, and when he starts fucking her she's surprised that she lets him; she never really thought of herself as a girl who would fuck the first time she went home with a guy, although that was the way it happened with Austin, too, so maybe she is that kind of girl, maybe that is the way things are going to be from now on, for her.
—Oh God, he says, —oh God. The light in here is off, but enough illumination spills in from the hallway for her to see his face, to see that his eyes are clenched shut. She wonders where he is. Maybe he's imagining screwing someone else, some ex. You're fucking me so that you can fuck her again, she thinks. And then she realizes that part of why she's feeling disappointed with this whole experience is because fucking Julius isn't the same as fucking Austin, and she realizes that on some level she's fucking Julius so that she can fuck Austin again, and this thought hits her so hard that she suddenly feels like she might vomit.
Julius comes, and after winding down for a minute or so he climbs off of her; he wraps his arms around her shoulders, presses his face into her neck, and murmurs the words thank you. Lydia hasn't come yet, so she reaches her hand between her legs and tries getting off that way, she tries, and as she keeps trying her frustration keeps growing, she finds herself getting pissed off, goddamnit, if she could just fucking come and just for fucking thirty seconds not feel so awful about everything—
Julius notices her efforts, and asks —Do you want me to go down on you? She ignores him. She feels like pushing her free hand into his face. He starts to stroke her hair. Finally she comes, finally, and it's like the stingiest little orgasm she's ever had, it doesn't make her feel better at all, it makes her feel even angrier, like her own body has betrayed her.
She gets up and leaves Julius in the mess of blankets, wanders out into the hall. She finds her way to the bathroom, flicks on the light, avoids looking in the mirror. She sits on the toilet and holds her face in her hands and, unexpectedly, a sob rips out of her. Get a grip on yourself, she thinks, face in her hands. It's OK, she thinks, you're OK. Then she thinks no, and she lets a second sob out, and that seems to finish them off for the time being. She gets up and stands at the sink and splashes water on her face.
She tries to imagine the next twelve hours: going back into the bedroom, climbing into bed next to Julius, trying to sleep, then waking up next to him, all the inevitable morning-after chitchat. It all seems so wearying. She wishes she was drunk: then none of that stuff would be in her mind, she would only be thinking must sleep.
But she isn't.
Just put on your clothes and go, she thinks, looking at the straight line of her mouth in the mirror.
But she doesn't.
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