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Alex, Always
by Heather Emmanuel
She loses her virginity to a butch who is leaving in six days. Before that happens, there's a queue for the printer. At least the WiFi is better. This butch with an undercut and Ray-Bans towers over her. Butch. It jammed last time I was here, she feels herself say. There's a lilt in her tone, voice soft. Soft. This butch is called Alex. Alex says you look smart, and then, I’m not meant to be here. Alex is moving and removed her router too early in an attempt to “stay productive.” She asks where Alex is moving to. It’s a long story, Alex rubs the back of her neck in what must be a nervous tell. She clutches her resolve like a lifeline. Alex has veins on her hands, vine-like. Her own face feels hot. Leaning forward is intentional. Batting her eyelashes is not. It's in the back of Alex's car driven twenty minutes from the library to the back of a retail car park. The conversation flows, the mutual decision flickers between them like a lightbulb. Alex is a carpenter. Alex is leaving for Indiana in six days. Always wanted to work for myself, Alex says, as she puts a hand on the headrest to reverse. She straddles Alex like she's done it before. Alex leans back, legs open, inviting. The car smells of sandalwood and linen, leather and expensive cologne. There's no way we're the same age, she thinks. Alex, who looks utterly unshaken, whispers, I got you, don't worry. She gasps through the first orgasm, thighs taut, nails digging into Alex's back. The tightrope snaps beneath her without warning. The drop is a release she never knew she needed. Alex strokes her hair, not in routine, but in solace. Every part of her body is ready to take take take. Alex, whose fingers trace her inner thigh with reverence. She wonders, not for the first time, if this is what it's supposed to feel like. She bites down on Alex's shoulder during the second and the third. To keep herself from crying out, from asking Alex to stay, from recounting every story about goddesses who burn and bloom. Alex, who pushes up her glasses at the bridge as if she didn't unlock all the repressed desire and dread in the pit of her chest. Alex, who has bite marks from where her skin swallowed sweet, muffled moans. Alex, who squeezes her hand and says, you know where to find me. Alex, who doesn’t take, only gives gives gives. Alex, who kisses her head – already halfway gone.