The Hating Game

“I thought maybe you meant it was me in your dream.”

“It was all a lie.” It falls out of my mouth.

“I see,” he says after a long pause. “Well done, I guess. You got me wound up over it.”

I’ve damaged the little momentum he had going and I regret it instantly. He begins to pull himself straighter in the seat.

“I did have the dirtiest dream of my entire life. But it wasn’t like I told you.”

He sinks back down into his seat. I can sense his face is turned away. I can imagine his embarrassment. If he’d told me about a dream and let me believe it was about me, I’d feel ridiculous, carrying his lie in my head.

“The dream was definitely about you, Josh.”

Now it’s my turn to talk like he’s not there. The sound of my own voice sounds scratched-up and husky and the rain is falling harder as I drive. I can see the reflective eyes of a forest animal on the roadside as I bring the car around a long curve.

“I’d gone to bed thinking about you, and how I wanted to mess with you by wearing the short black dress. I wanted you to look at me and . . . notice me. I still don’t know exactly why I wanted to wear that dress. And during the night you showed up in my dream. You, pressing me down, tangling me up in bedsheets.”

He breathes out in a rush. I need to get this out.

“It was something you’d said to me during the day at work. You’d said to me, ‘I’m going to work you so fucking hard.’ Any girl would have an erotic dream after you said that to her. Even one who hated your guts.”

Silence. I press on.

“‘I’m going to work you so fucking hard.’ You said it to me in my dream. And you smiled at me, and I woke myself up on the edge of coming.”

“Seriously,” he manages to say.

“I almost came from the thought of you pressing me down and smiling at me.”

I can see out the corner of my eye his hands are in fists on his knees.

“Is that all it would take? Because it can be arranged.”

“I was shocked as hell and I acted all weirded out the next day. Exit the highway here?”

As the off-ramp approaches he makes a sound like a strangled yes. I indicate and exit. He shifts again in his seat. I glance over at his lap. A streetlight helpfully gives me one gorgeous freeze-frame of a hard, heavy angle.

“So why’d you lie then, about your dream?”

“I didn’t want to even say a word, but you wouldn’t let up. How could I confess? I was too embarrassed. I thought you’d tease me. So I lied.”

“Your tiny little dress . . .” He mutters something to himself. We both do identical squirms in our seats. His eyes slide sideways to my lap, and we both understand each other perfectly.

The main street of Port Worth is wide and divided by wide verges planted with mounds of petunias and geraniums that glow red in our headlights and under brass streetlights. During the day, this place is undoubtedly gorgeous.

“It was the same day I thought you were lying about your date. Left here, then follow the road as far as it goes.”

Surely he’ll laugh. It’s sort of funny when you think about it.

“Yeah, I did lie about it.”

There’s a pause, and this time I’m in a hell of a lot of trouble.

“Lucinda. What the fuck? Why would you do that?” His anger is visceral.

“You were sitting there at your desk, looking at me like I was a loser.”

“Fucking hell. Is my face so fucking difficult to read?” When I say nothing, he shakes his head.