I could feel her chest heaving against my hand.
"Don't", she said, and I looked away so I wouldn't have to see her cry.
But I could still hear her sobs over the music; I wanted to turn up the volume, but I knew it would be rude.
"It was good", I said, "it just -"
"Wasn't good enough."
"Don't say that -"
But I knew she was right. I knew it the way I knew that I didn't like papayas, or purple negligees.
"Fuck."
"Was I bad in bed?"
I laughed. Wrong reaction. The split second before the "no" hit my lips, gave her a fear I hadn't meant to instill.
"Fuck", I said again.
She laughed. "I'm the one who should get to say that."
I didn't offer to walk her out, merely listened to the sound of her footsteps harmonizing with the drumbeats - after I heard her close the door, I turned the volume up a little higher, and lay down on my newly purchased sheets.
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