Free This Is Between Us by Kevin Sampsell Page B

garage. He was wearing a helmet—one of those bike helmets that look like a turtle shell. “Can I give you a ride? I have protection,” he said. He showed me his bike, held his hand out and gave it a flourish, like, Isn’t it a nice machine? I told him thank you and held my hand out to him, mostly out of curiosity.
    I still felt unsatisfied that night, but I also felt normal. I wanted to tell you about all of this, but I didn’t think I would have the tightest answers to the loosest questions you’d ask. For instance: Why?
    …
    “Love doesn’t just fall out of the sky,” you said once. We were listening to a show on talk radio. You were scoffing at the host, who was offering hope to a heartbroken caller. Sometimes you talked back to radios, TV s, and real people.
    “Let me cut through the bullshit of this dude’s advice,” you said to me. “People don’t end up with people better than they are. It’s always an equal pairing. Drug addicts end up with drug addicts. Fat people end up with fat people. Perverts end up with perverts. Boring people end up with boring people. If you’re dating outside of your league, you’re either one of the lucky few, or you’re going to die a mysterious death in the wooded area behind your house.”
    “You should have your own show,” I said, even though I didn’t really agree with your assessments.
    “Damn right I should,” you said.
    We turned the radio off and drove in silence for a few minutes. “I love you,” you finally said. We laughed so hard we nearly drove off the road.
    …
    Vince had his first babysitting job, watching a five-year-old next door for three hours. The mother gave him twenty dollars and I asked him what he was going to do with the money. He told me about some leather gloves that he wanted at the store down the street. It was nearly summer, too warm for gloves, so I asked him what he needed them for.
    “I have a pair of gloves for yard work and a pair for snow,” he said. “I think leather ones will be good social gloves.”
    I tried to think of what social gloves would be. I imagined Vince at a fancy dinner party, shaking hands with people. His hands would probably be uncomfortable and sweaty inside them, but his social gloves would be the talk of the room. I remembered certain things I wore as a kid to come across as more sophisticated or adult—my father’s dress jackets, my first pair of slip-on shoes, and the fedora I took from my cousin’s house without permission.
    When Vince returned from the store, he did not have the gloves. “They were on sale this week and ran out,” he said.
    “It’s probably too warm for them now anyway,” I said. “Plus your hands are getting bigger. When it gets cold again, I’ll buy you a pair and they’ll fit better.”
    “My hands are getting bigger?” he said. He looked at his hands as if he hadn’t ever thought about them before. “I guess you’re right.”
    …
    For the first couple of years, I was trying to learn as much as possible about you. I worried that your ex-husband knew more about you. I wanted all of his knowledge and more. He had to know that ants make you queasy, and he probably knew you didn’t like talk shows.
    Those things were easy to learn.
    I wondered if he knew more intimate details than I did. Did you ever go through an anal phase? If so, when?
    Did he know that thing I discovered about your chin and how it smells like white cheddar popcorn?
    …
    Sometimes I walked around with my cock sticking out of the front flap of my boxers, but only when it was erect. You were trying to check your email and I kept pacing closer to you. I started rubbing your back and you turned your head to put me in your mouth. My breath got quicker and you twisted in your chair for a better angle. I had to stand on the tips of my toes a little. I read through your email in-box while you sucked on me. Sarah, James, Jennifer, Dad, Chris, Sage, Rob, Rob, Rob, Sarah, Rob. I wondered why Rob emailed