Fishbowl. Sarah Mlynowski

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      Who wants to have sex with a guy who uses the word intimate?

      Is it possible I haven’t had sex with anyone because I’ve been subconsciously saving myself for Clint? No…maybe…but what if it never happens? Will I stay a virgin forever?

      The clock on the VCR, which even when it was connected to a TV refused to play videos, says 6:10, which actually means that it’s 7:10, because it’s still on eastern standard time. In a few months it will be right again.

      Fifty minutes till Clint-time. It has to happen.

      Time to prepare the body and make it sexable.

      Tonight’s shower requires many props. Got the loofah. Got the razor. Got the pear body wash. Got the citrus face wash. Got the watermelon-fortified shampoo. Got the avocado leave-in conditioner that was stuck through the mailbox and because it’s just me picking up the mail, it’s mine, all mine! (The girls and I used to rock-paper-scissors for these mini treasures.)

      I place my glasses on the sink. I know I should put them into their case, because if I don’t, I’ll never remember where they are and spend a minimum of twenty-five minutes frantically searching for them tomorrow morning. But I don’t know where the case is.

      Fab! So much hot water! No one flushing the toilet while I’m trying to cleanse myself! The apartment has two bathrooms. One has a shower and toilet, and the other one has just a toilet. I’m in the one with the shower and toilet, obviously. The other bathroom is off the smallest bedroom, soon to be Emma’s room, once Rebecca’s room. Isn’t that weird? Why build an apartment like that, where the master bedroom, mine, has no bathroom, and the smallest one does? It must be built for students—to make it fair. If a family moved in here, the kid would have its own bathroom and the parents would have to share!

      I’d need my own bathroom if I lived with a boy. When I’m with Clint, I leave the water running when I pee so he doesn’t realize what I’m doing in there.

      Melissa let me use her bathroom if someone was using the shower in the main bathroom. I hope that Emma won’t mind the same rule.

      That felt great. Why don’t I ever remember to keep my towel next to the shower? Thirty minutes until he’s here. The skin around my thumbnail is bleeding. I reach over to the toilet paper roll and rip off a few squares, and bandage my injured finger and apply pressure. Why do I do that? And when did I do that? Why don’t I even notice when I’m biting anymore?

      Post-shower is really prime biting time. The skin gets all pruned. There are so many little pieces and layers for teeth to grab on to. That sounded disgusting. That’s it. It’s over. I’m stopping. No more biting. How can I make ecstatic nail marks on Clint’s back if I have no nails?

      “What are you doing?” he asked me earlier today. When I realized it was him on the phone, I got into my Phone Concentration position. This is basically lying down on my unmade bed in a right-angle position, my feet up against the wall above my pillow. I love my bed. I have a yellow daisy-covered duvet cover and six soft throw pillows in varying shades of yellow. I love my bed most when it’s made. Which only happens on sheet-changing day or when a guy comes over, the latter not being too often. The former being less often than I should admit. What can I say? I hate doing laundry.

      “Not much,” I answered. “You?”

      “Maybe I’ll come by later to watch Korpics.” Korpics is that new let’s-hang-out-at-the-water-cooler-to-talk-about-lives-that-aren’t-ours detective show. The fact that it’s only available on the Extra channel—Canada’s version of HBO—only increases its water-cooler coolness factor since only select people are capable of chiming into the conversation.

      Luckily, I’m part of the select few.

      I know he doesn’t get Korpics at his place, but he could have gone to see it at a bar if what he was really interested in doing was “watching.” It’s an excuse. It has to be. He’s never asked to watch TV here before.

      Hemorrhage averted. I throw the soiled toilet paper into the slightly overflowing garbage, leave the towels discarded on the tiled floor (I will remember to pick those up before he gets here. I will, I will, I will…) and wander naked to my closet, something I would never do if anyone else were home. What to wear…It can’t be something that looks like I want action. I need a hangout outfit. Not too Victoria’s Secret, because why would I be wearing anything sexy if I’m just sitting around the apartment? I have to look like I don’t care what I look like, right? That’s the rule with guys. They want what they can’t have. So if I look like I’m not interested in the slightest, he’ll be interested. The grosser I look the more he’ll want me.

      Decision made. I’ll wear my old camp overalls, the ones with the tear on the left knee from when I tripped on the bench in the rec hall. Which killed.

      A cattle rancher stares back at me from my reflection in the mirror. What if being this extreme on the gross-a-meter repulses him? Maybe I should go casual. Gap modelesque. And makeup that doesn’t look like makeup. Natural makeup with no lipstick. No lipstick looks more natural.

      The truth is I hate wearing lipstick because I’m perpetually afraid of getting it on my teeth. I have a tiny overbite and I’m always convinced that I’ll spend half the day walking around with red-stained front teeth.

      Jeans and a little T-shirt?

      Modrobes (look like doctor scrub pants but in funky orange) and a tank?

      A wrap skirt?

      Why would I be wearing a skirt to sit around in my apartment?

      The buzzer sounds.

      Oh, God. He’s here! I’m going for the true natural look, then. Jeans and a tank top it is. Why is he so early? He couldn’t wait to see me? He couldn’t wait to see me!

      The buckle digs into my stomach. I hope it’s because I put my jeans in the dryer by mistake, and has nothing to do with that cheesecake I polished off last night.

      Mmm. Cheesecake.

      They’ll stretch, right?

      Note to self—hold in stomach. And butt.

      Can you hold in your butt?

      “Coming!” I holler. I certainly hope I’ll get the chance to say that again later.

      My reflection catches me off guard in the mirror next to the door. Yuck. I got deodorant on the sides of my tank top. Why does that happen? The bottle says “Clear!” So why are there white tire tracks on all my shirts?

      “Hold on!” I scream (I hope I won’t have to say that later tonight) while running to my room. I throw my tank into my laundry basket and squeeze into a white T-shirt.

      “Who is it?” I ask. You never know. I don’t want to let an ax murderer into my house.

      “It’s Em,” replies a voice that does not belong to a yummy-smelling hard body. Em? Who’s Em? Oh, Emma.

      “Hi!” I say, opening the door.

      “Hey. I just came by to drop some shit off. Hope that’s all right.” She’s holding a fancy-looking metallic-green box.

      “Sure, no problem. СКАЧАТЬ