The Pairing(41)

“What, are you putting him back on the menu?”

“Oh, baby, he was never off it,” I say. “I could show him a nice time.”

Kit raises his eyebrows.

“What?” I ask. “Why do you look so skeptical?”

He shrugs. “I just don’t know if you’re compatible.”

“I’m not talking about marrying him.”

“Neither am I.”

I set the dredges of my cider down with a slightly sticky thunk.

“You mean we’re not sexually compatible? What are you, the Fuck Whisperer?”

“I know people like him, and I don’t know if you’re up to it,” Kit says, the tip of his middle finger skating around the rim of his glass. “That’s all.”

“Up to what? Does he want to put my toes in his mouth or something?”

“He wants to make love. Light a hundred candles, sprawl out on a Moroccan rug, massage oil onto each other’s bodies for hours before you even get into it. I don’t think you have the patience.”

“You’d be surprised how patient I’ve become,” I say. Kit’s fingertip slips from the edge of his glass and smudges down the side. “And what if you’re wrong, huh? What if he wants to be, like, manhandled?”

“Then I would manhandle him.”

“You’re not a manhandler.”

“That’s not true.”

“Who have you ever manhandled?”

Kit’s eyes lock on mine. “You.”

A server brushes past with a tray of shots. A woman at the next table laughs, sudden and loud. Something sour and hot rolls down the inside of me and begins to pool.

“Like, three times. Barely. At specific request.”

“Maybe I’ve been practicing.”

Where is Fabrizio with that drink?

“So, that’s what you’ll do if he wants you to rough him up?” I ask. “Spank him twice and bake him croissants in the morning so he knows you didn’t mean it?”

“You liked those croissants,” Kit says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “And if he wants you to be sensual? Will you give him the Flowerday Special? A mixtape and a hand down the pants by track three?”

“I’d wait until track twelve.”

“Wow, you have gotten patient. Did you start meditating?”

“I have simply learned how rewarding it can be to take my time,” I say. “It’s called having range.”

“Range,” Kit repeats, leaning closer. “Sure.”

“In fact, if you want any tips, let me know.” I shift toward him. “I’m happy to help.”

“If I ever need advice on using spit as lube, I know who to ask.”

“And I’ll hit you up next time I’m trying to, like, fuck a poet.”

“Oh, poets are easy,” Kit says, breath warm against my cheek, all apples and spice. “They just want to be thrown around.”

“Sounds like you’ve been throwing some poets around, Kit.”

“I told you, I’ve been practicing.”

“Still finding that hard to believe.”

“I have references.”

“And I have doubts.”

“Give me an hour and I can prove it.”

“An hour’s not nearly long enough.”

The eye contact is overwhelming, so I look at his lips instead. They part to reveal pink tongue against white teeth, and for one smothering moment, the only thing in Spain is that mouth, the plush promise of it, the way it would feel to push inside.

It crushes me then, slams into me and pulls me down: I want him. I still want him.

I kick my stool backward and jump to my feet at the same moment Kit does.

“There has got to be someone in this club who wants to fuck me,” I say.

Kit looks away, eyes wild. “I’m sure you’re right.”

We split up, not bothering to fight the crowd blocking Fabrizio. Instead, I find someone leaning against the back wall with a beer. I chat them up in clumsy Spanish, and at the first sign of interest, I ask if they want to get out of here. When they say yes, I turn to declare victory, half expecting Kit to be there.

He isn’t far, but he’s not waiting for me. He’s on his way out of the club with a group of hot locals of various genders, his arm over a woman’s shoulder, being swept away into the night. I left him alone for ten minutes, and he got himself invited to some kind of polyamorous Spanish sex party.

He meets my eye and smiles, fingers tangled in a stranger’s hair.

“That still only counts as one!” I call, but he’s already gone.





I turn the bombone over on my tongue.

The chocolate is dark and rich, almost peppery. The wet warmth of my mouth melts it down to the caramel and citrus-kissed cream at the center. I focus on how it coats the flat of my tongue, the body of it, the nuttiness.

A bead of sweat rolls down my spine and into the crack of my ass, breaking the last bit of my concentration.

We’re standing in the arched doorway of a chocolatería on La Rambla, the wide, busy, tree-fringed walk that runs from central Barcelona to the Mediterranean Sea. The buildings here are a strange mix of new and old, incongruent pieces of a long-lived city keeping up with its people. A sixteenth-century church across from a shop serving dick-shaped waffles, a McDonald’s wedged between saints. A dog lies panting in the alley nearby, stealing shade from the big market, La Boqueria. Old women in booths sell fresh flowers and cups of sliced fruit, young men zip by on electric scooters, and the sun scorches every cobble and brick.