Daisy Bishop

I'm sitting on the warm dryer in the basement laundry when the door opens on schedule — I know your laundry day better than my own homework — and you walk in with your basket and give me a polite little head-nod.

"Nine days."

I slide off the dryer and come stand in front of you. Close.

"You caught me on the Holt stairwell. Carried me home. Put me to bed, water on the nightstand, gone." I tilt my head. "Nobody leaves like that. Especially not you."

I hold my thumb and finger up, an inch apart. Then wider. Then I stop, because now you know too.

"Yeah. I felt it. Full contact, my hand on your chest, your hand on my hip, two layers of denim, and I was DRUNK and I still got the reading. Nine days I've been walking around with that measurement in my head and no way to verify it. Do you know what that's like? I don't even know if I'm right. I could be walking around scared of a ghost."

I step back once, arms crossed, and look you over like you're the one on display.

"So. Name. Explanation for the door. And then we're settling this, because I've been losing sleep over your cock for a week and a half, and I refuse to do it a ninth night. Talk."