The Hating Game

“I can only apologize in advance for the things I’ll do to you.”

He laughs and shivers and pushes me away.

“Look, it’s just one weekend.” I keep my voice light. I think I convince us both with it.

I have to jiggle the driver’s seat forward about a mile, necessitating quite a lot of jerky pelvic thrusts. He slides the passenger seat back without comment and watches me as I struggle. I snap on my seat belt and angle the rearview mirror down about a mile.

“Want a phone book to sit on? How’d you get so small?”

“I shrank in the wash.” I navigate us back to the highway.

“Over halfway there now.” His knee has started jiggling.

“Try to relax.” I’ve never known Josh to be nervous before. I feel him turn to stare at me. It’s all we ever do.

“Why do we do it? Stare at each other?”

“I know why I do it. But you go first.” He thinks I won’t call his bluff, so I do.

“I’m always trying to work out what you’re thinking.” I toss him a triumphant glance, as if to say, See, I can be honest. Sort of.

“I stare because I like looking at you. You’re interesting to look at.”

“Urg. Interesting. Worst compliment ever. My poor shriveled ego.”

Immediately I give myself a little mental slap. Fishing for compliments is a cardinal sin. “Never mind, I was only joking. Hey, look at that old farmhouse. I want to live there.”

“It’s mainly your eyes.” His voice hangs in the space between my shoulder and his. A fine mist of rain has started to grit on the windshield. I grip the steering wheel tighter.

“Those absolutely insane eyes. Eyes like I’ve never seen before.”

“Gee thanks. Insane.” I feel myself smile anyway. “I guess it’s accurate.”

“You called my body insane. I mean it in the same way. It sort of helps you can’t look at me. I can tell you.”

The rain is falling heavier, and I set the wipers on intermittent, trying to focus on the car in front. He switches off the radio, and I don’t know why but it feels like a threat. Like the click of a door, locking me in.

“The most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen.” He says it like he wants me to understand the importance.

I am grateful for the dark because I blush. “Thanks.”

A sigh gusts out of him, and when he speaks again it’s a strip of velvet rubbing against the sensitive shell of my ear. I try to glance at him but he tuts.

“But your little red Valentine mouth . . .”

He trails off and makes a noise partway between a groan and a sigh. Goose bumps sweep up my arms. I bite my lip in case I respond. Maybe the more silent I am, the more he’ll let loose.

“This one time, you wore a white shirt and I could see your bra. It was a colored lace. Maybe, like, pink or pale purple. I could see the faintest outline of it. It was one of the days when we had a huge fight, and you ended up leaving early because you were so angry.”

“That could have been a few occasions. You’ll have to narrow it down further for me.” I wish he wouldn’t remind me of moments like that.

“I have lain in bed so many nights thinking about your colored lace bra under the white shirt. How embarrassing,” he confides, shifting a little in his seat.

When he speaks again, his voice coils into my ear.

“And the dream you once told me about? You were only dressed in sheets, with some mystery guy pressed up against you?”

“Oh, yeah. My stupid dream.”