There's something hypnotic about the brush of her fingers. This is nothing, I know, not in the long run, not really. It's just sex. But right now, she's tender and warm, and it's nothing but it's not meaningless. I like her well enough, but I don't like her the way my sisters would say, that isn't what I mean. It still means something that I'm here, and I'm grateful in a way I don't know how to voice or if I should. If I could without sounding like a jackass.

Pulling out of her, I still don't want to move or go far, turning onto my side next to her. My fingers catch on her wrist, so delicate under my hand. It's still true what I said, that she's tiny. That she seems fragile. She's not, though, not even close. And she seems content enough. Even in the darkness, she looks pleased, and there's the enormous sense I got something right.

Even here and now, I don't feel like MOST GUYS, but looking at her, I don't even know if she can tell. I don't know if I'm relieved or annoyed by that. I just know I want to kiss her again, so I do.