[Her · The Girlfriend]
My phone buzzed on the vanity; his profile picture popped up. He said tonight’s dinner was a gathering with people in his line of work, that the whole table was people he had to entertain, that I shouldn’t come too early and just sit there stiff—six o’clock would do, he’d already sent me the address. I answered with an obedient “Okay,” a voice so obedient that even I felt it was something staged. After he hung up the room fell quiet, and I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the mirror inside the wardrobe door. The woman in the mirror wore a nightgown, her hair loosely pinned up, the sliver of skin at her neck glowing white. I have a boyfriend who is very good to me—I’ve never denied that. And I have Apan. In my mind those two things are kept apart by two separate hands, never weighed on the same scale.
I met Apan a few months ago. The last time I went to his place was early spring, and after that we never touched on the same bed again—we only chatted on WeChat. At first we still put on airs, talking about work and how things were going; later every line got blunter than the last. He types fast, his words are filthy, and my face would burn as I read the screen, yet my fingers kept scrolling down line by line, unwilling to close it. A while ago he asked me out to eat, and under the table his hand wouldn’t behave: first it rested on my thigh, then it groped inward through my skirt, and later, in the gap while we waited for the food, he leaned sideways and laid his whole palm over one of my breasts and gave it a squeeze, all while his eyes were turned toward the waiter, his face perfectly proper. I didn’t dodge. I found that the less I dodged, the more his nerve grew, inch by inch.
[Apan · The Fuck Buddy]
At three in the afternoon I texted her, said I’d come get you, come sit at my place first, we’ll head over together later. Truth is that restaurant of hers is nowhere near my route, but I just wanted her to swing by mine first. It had been months since I really touched her; on WeChat she plays coy with her mouth, yet she never misses a reply—at two in the morning I’d send a filthy line and ten seconds later it’d already be marked read, that look of being obviously desperate for it while still holding herself up is what gets me the hardest. A woman like her knows exactly what she’s doing, and the clearer-headed she is the more fun it is—she wasn’t tricked into bed, she walked here step by step, and she looked back to read your face as she came.
She wrote back: Sounds good. Just two words, followed by a little smile. I stared at that smile for two seconds, and I already had a sense of how it’d go. I went and took a shower and pulled the curtains open—I live on the fourth floor, the living room and the bedroom both have floor-to-ceiling windows, good light, bright in the daytime, and at night when the streetlamps come on, whatever’s going on inside might well be visible to someone standing below looking up. I’ve always been aware of that; I’d just never used it with anyone.
[Her · The Girlfriend]
I started packing. Tonight’s dinner was a proper occasion, so I took out everything I was going to wear and laid it on the bed—the silk slip dress, the lingerie to match it, stockings, a pair of stiletto heels, and the makeup bag. Everything was laid out and I was about to change, and my hand froze in midair. I don’t know where that thought came from, I only know that the instant it surfaced, something down in my belly felt as if it had been lightly pinched, half of me gone weak and tingling. I folded up that whole set on the bed—dress, lingerie, stockings, shoes, makeup bag—piece by piece, and stuffed it all into that slightly larger handbag. Stuffed it bulging full. Then I stood in front of the mirror, stripped down to just myself, took the beige long trench coat off the hanger, put it straight on over my bare body, and tied the belt; below I wore a pair of black leggings, stretched tight over my legs. Under the trench coat, there was nothing.
I turned half a circle in front of the mirror. The collar of the trench coat wasn’t cut low—as long as I didn’t bend over or undo the belt, I looked like the most ordinary woman about to head out. But I knew what was underneath. Take one step and the fabric brushed against my skin; that empty, hollow chill of wearing nothing swayed from my chest all the way down to my belly. I texted Apan: pull the car into the compound, drive up to the building, it’s a hassle for me to walk down. He replied instantly with a “?”, then another “you wait.” I slung the handbag over my shoulder, took one last look at the woman in the mirror in her belted trench coat, face perfectly composed, and went out.
[The Boyfriend]
I put some thought into booking that place. She doesn’t fuss out loud, but she has her preferences—she can’t settle in somewhere too noisy, so I made a point of picking a spot by the window, six o’clock, avoiding the worst of the dinner-hour crush. Once I’d sent the address I went into the private room; tonight’s gathering was important, and everyone at the table was someone I needed to entertain well. Partway through I fished out my phone and glanced at it—she’d replied “Okay,” with a little smiley. That set my mind at ease. She’s the kind of girlfriend who puts a man at ease: says she’ll arrive at a certain time and she does, never makes me lose face at the table. I turned my phone face-down on the table and raised my glass. If tonight went smoothly, that year-end deal would be within reach. It never occurred to me that I’d make that call tonight, and it never occurred to me what the voice on the other end would sound like.
[Her · The Girlfriend]
By the time the car stopped downstairs the sky hadn’t gone fully dark. I pulled the door open and got in, and the hem of the trench coat slid open a gap, the thigh stretched tight in the leggings showing through. Apan had one hand on the wheel; he turned his head and ran his eyes over me once, up and down, asked nothing, only hooked the corner of his mouth. The car smelled of the cologne he always wore, mixed with the scent of the leather seats. He backed the car into a spot, killed the engine, turned to look at me, and quite naturally laid his hand over the back of the hand I’d rested on my leg, pressing down with his fingertips. “Come up and sit a while,” he said. I let out an “Mm.” I knew we both understood that going up wasn’t for sitting. In the elevator it was just the two of us, the mirrored wall reflecting me in my belted trench coat with flushed cheeks, and a man standing behind me whose gaze never once left me. At the fourth floor the door opened, and he lifted his hand to let me in first. The main lights were off inside, only one warm-yellow floor lamp left on, and those two floor-to-ceiling windows were pitch dark, reflecting the two of us.