Danielle, the curiosity
Danielle, of course, had her own intentions. She said she had always lived alone.
When we got to her place I watched her crack open tall boys of Budweiser and drink them out of awkwardness, never bothering to offer me one. She gave me an American Spirit when I finally asked her for a cigarette. As I smoked her eyes darted from the center of the carpet to the corner of the wall and back. Our conversation was mostly start and stop. At some point I had to take a leak. Inside the bathroom I noticed that the toilet had not been flushed for at least a day, maybe two.
Back in the living room we listened to a couple of records and talked shit about John Updike for a while. I flipped the record and the subject changed to biochemistry, which Danielle rambled on about self-consciously for almost an hour. She had once studied the it in college.
As she spoke I looked over at her twin-sized bed that was off in the corner. It was small and empty. Uninviting. I noticed then for the first time that Danielle had very small breasts, and that there was no real figure to her thin body. Her hands were cold and chapped. Looking at them I knew I had to go home. In fact, I had known all along.
We slept together that night. For several days after I struggled to find some kind of hidden purpose or meaning behind it. I didn’t touch another woman for years after that.
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