Free Let Down Your Hair by Fiona Price

while he shoved his leg against yours and kissed you was “reclaiming your own sexuality“, was it?
    Maybe it wasn’t , said the second voice. But this is . As I got up and tiptoed over to Ryan, I realized that the second voice was mine.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to … I was … I was just startled.” No one’s ever kissed me on the mouth before.
    “Startled?” said Ryan to his desk.
    Hot and cold with my own daring, I rose, walked over and laid my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move, but I felt his muscles relax a little. He lifted his head to look back at me, and this time I didn’t look away. The shimmering, pounding feeling returned like a tide, and this time I admitted to myself it was desire.
    “Also,” I added, “you forgot something important.”
    I plucked his hand from the desk chair and placed it on the bun at the back of my head. For a moment he didn’t react. Then he turned to face me, slipped the hairnet off and tossed it onto the floor. The last thing I remember clearly before the world melted away was the tickle of his springy dark hair, and my own hair, pouring onto the futon like a sea of spilt champagne.

10

Turning the tables
    When I arrived home, the street lamps were on, filling the garden with spiky purple shadows. The garden and its shadows were as familiar to me as my face, yet tonight they looked different, as if the events of the afternoon had changed them as well.
    I reached for my keys with a tingling hand. An hour ago this same hand was on Ryan’s skin, feeling the muscles of his back tense and shift, marveling at the way his jaw changed from prickle to sleek. Standing in front of my childhood home, the afternoon’s events seemed impossible. Only the salty tang of him on my lips, and the unfocused afterglow in my body, kept me trusting that my memories were real.
    I took hold of the doorknob and it jerked from my grip. The door swung open, and light flooded the porch, cut in two by an Andrea-shaped shadow.
    “It’s nearly nine o’clock, Sage.”
    A day ago, her pointed tone would have withered me, but not tonight. “Sorry,” I said. “I was just … at a friend’s place.” Time to shelve the library excuse for something closer to the truth.
    “This friend doesn’t have a phone?”
    I started to say “he” and then substituted it at the last minute. “They do, but I thought … I didn’t think I’d be quite this late.”
    Andrea’s mouth thinned. “You lost track of time again.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “I see you also lost track of what night it is.”
    It was Tuesday. Andrea and I made dinner on alternate nights, and Tuesday was my night. A chink of guilt opened in my hazy golden mind. “I’m so sorry, Andrea. I could … Would you like me to make you something now?”
    “I made something for myself. At eight.”
    The chink widened at the resentment in her voice. “I’m so sorry. I honestly forgot.”
    “Like the meeting with Hilda.”
    Andrea advanced down the hallway and looked me over. Nervous and guilty, I tilted my head to hide the rash Ryan’s chin had left around my mouth.
    “So have you written your proposal for Hilda?”
    “I’ve started it,” I lied.
    Andrea gave an exasperated sigh. “A month ago you were a responsible adult. What’s happened, Sage?”
    I groped around for a reason, but every thought I touched turned into mist. “I think it’s the transition to a PhD,” I said at last. “I found it easier to get motivated when I had deadlines and exams.”
    “Then we’ll put together a timetable with deadlines. In the office, first thing tomorrow morning.”
    Andrea partitioned her own time into half hour blocks with labels like Online Research , First Year Marking, and Conference Administration . Something told me my version was unlikely to contain blocks labeled Learn About Popular Culture and Have Sex With Ryan . “Could we make it Thursday? I’m … I’ve got a meeting with someone in the Art